


The Sinful

by SlutWriter



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal creampie, Animal Sacrifice, Blasphemy, Blood, Blowjob Face, Cum Sniffing, Cum drinking, Cum on food, Excessive Semen, F/F, F/M, Horror, Humiliation, Hung Shota, Incest, Lolicon, MILF, Moral Degeneration, Netorare, Other, Religious Imagery, Rimming, Virility, Watersports, handjob, mother/daughter - Freeform, ntr, pissing, sacrilegious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2020-12-16 17:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlutWriter/pseuds/SlutWriter
Summary: The Sterling family, operators of the Church of the Divine Pentecost, have adopted a new son named Bobby. It turns out he's an extraordinary boy with a side both dark and mysterious.





	1. The Sinful

“It’s not appropriate,” said pastor Cal Sterling, straightening the powder blue tie that he liked to wear with his expensive grey suit with the hand-woven interlining. “I realize the boy is getting used to a new town, a new family-”

“Call him Bobby, Cal,” admonished his wife, Vanessa, in a gentle but insistent way. She was seven years younger than he; 35 to his 42, and while he was greying at the temples she was as attractive as when they had first married. Cal often joked that marriage to a woman as lovely as Vanessa was one of the advantages of being a Protestant. “He’s just as much your son as Aaron is. Not ‘_ the boy _’.” She sighed. “I swear, sometimes I think you’ll never warm up to him.” 

“Bobby, by all means,” Cal went on. “And you know I have no problem with what we’ve- with the adoption,” he went on, looking at himself in the large mirror that filled one entire wall of their walk-in closet. Walk-in closets and large mirrors were two of the benefits of living in a rather expensive house; but since Cal was the pastor of the Church of the Divine Pentecost (average attendance 1,200, thank you very much), the lord, with a little help from hundreds of generous parishioners each weak, had provided handsomely.

Vanessa put a hand on his shoulder. “Then why not excuse him this time?” she went on. “A Halloween mask is just such an innocent mistake. He didn’t know any better.”

“It’s the _ occult _,” Cal said, firmly, finishing up his tie and turning to Vanessa. He stood a head taller than she. “I won’t have it. If Bobby doesn’t know better, we have to teach him. That’s the Lord’s way.” He paused, then added: “And that mask - you have to admit it was grotesque.”

Vanessa had no disagreement there. Bobby was eleven years old, and had fashioned some simple paper and string into a startlingly spooky representation of a human face with an exaggerated jack o’lantern mouth, stitched shut with vertical hashes. The eye-holes were ringed with black marker and appeared to be crying black tears that ran down the ‘cheeks’ of the white paper face. It was, he claimed, part of a school project. But Vanessa had found the entire thing startlingly chilling, perhaps _ because _ it was so simply made. “Yes, I know. It looked like… I don’t know. A man suffering the tortures of the cross.”

“They didn’t stitch your mouth shut on the cross, dear,” Cal said, evenly. “I don’t want to make a big deal of this. I just want Bobby to know that he should think of the Lord and Jesus Christ, and let that inspire him instead.” That was the pastor in him talking. Cal Sterling was a firm believer that God and his son Jesus Christ were happy, prosperous, affirming things, and he passed that message along to his congregation every week during services at the warehouse-turned-church that served as their place of worship. Cal’s interpretation of the bible was simple: that poverty, suffering and sacrifice were, contrary to what many Christians would tell you, not part of God’s plan to effectively worship Him. Religion wasn’t about bearing suffering, it was about a community of shared belief that would bring any god-fearing family _ out _ of suffering in time of need. 

God’s true believers were all promised happiness, wealth, and a blessed life. And if that didn’t happen? It wasn’t God’s fault, and certainly not Cal’s. Perhaps they just didn’t give enough, or open their hearts fully to the Lord. Perhaps prosperity hadn’t arrived yet and it was all just around the corner if they would keep their faith strong. And there were a million ways to keep faith strong. For example, if a congregant happened to have some luxury box seats to a college football game Cal wanted to attend, wouldn’t it be a show of Christian good works for him to pass them along? And if the contractors working on converting the warehouse into a church were asking for more money for their cost overruns, wouldn’t it only spread the blessings around to put an extra ten, or twenty, or fifty, or a hundred dollars in that collection plate? Of course it would! And in these million different ways, Cal took his taste. But no more than God, or his son Jesus Christ, would find seemly.

Cal also believed in the strength of family - he had two children with Vanessa, 11-year old son Isaac and 13-year old daughter Katrina - and had planned to have many more… until God threw a wrench into those plans. Bang! Polycystic ovary syndrome for Vanessa… and no more kids for the two of them. Until she had broached the idea of adoption. That was when the Bobby entered the picture. At first he had been against it - reasoning that blood was a special and perhaps spiritual bond, and also because any children Bobby had wouldn’t carry on the Sterling name as blood-related male heirs. Still, he realized that male sons, young men who could at least be his ideological heirs, could also carry the Church of the Divine Pentecost forward. Two boys instead of one, two incomes, two wills, two pairs of hard-working hands instead of one, setting up the chairs and passing the collection plate.

He and Vanessa had chosen Bobby because he was a handsome boy who had a skin complexion that wouldn’t make it obvious he was adopted. The agency told them his parents had been victims of violence, and that he had been in multiple foster homes and suffered possible abuse at some of them. Cal had initially cooled to the idea of taking in a boy who, because of his rough times in the system, might have behavioral problems. But surprisingly, he and Vanessa had found Bobby to be cool as a cucumber. During their initial meetings, he was calm, articulate, and seemed almost uninterested - always drawing doodles with paper and pencil while they talked. Cal had been ready to pull the plug if the boy seemed violent, dull, or otherwise damaged, but Bobby seemed very smart for his age… almost too smart. When Cal told him of the church and their mission to bring the grace of god to the congregation each week, the boy took only shrugged and nodded with a ‘sure’, as if he knew all of Cal’s tricks and was happy to play along and help him fleece the rubes. There was a cynicism there - Cal was sure of it - but he had no proof. Only a gut feeling.

Other than that feeling of unease Cal had about his seriousness, Bobby seemed a model child. He wasn’t overweight, and was also rather handsome with black hair so dark it was impossible to discern anything lighter, the bangs bangs combed over his forehead. Vanessa raved about his cuteness, predictably, and Cal had to admit he was happy the boy wasn’t slovenly or strange-looking; it was important to him, in the way he imagined it must be important to all fathers, that his sons carry his name with dignity. His biological son, Isaac, was the same age as Bobby… but Cal thought he lacked intensity. Isaac was happy to go along with the family business - performing at each service during a period of “exaltation” and passing the collection plate. This was a task that Cal intended Bobby to also perform, once he introduced the boy to his flock.

“Cal, are you listening to me?” Vanessa asked. Cal blinked himself out of his woolgathering. 

“I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I was just thinking. What did you say?”

“I said you shouldn’t be don’t be too hard on him,” Vanessa repeated, and leaned in and kissed his aftershave-scented cheek before looking him up and down. “You look good,” she said. “I’m sure the collection plates will be full. That pool needs a new lining; remember - and there’s the matter of the Tesla stalling out… we’re going to need to have it checked.”

“Right, right,” Cal said. “Well, God will provide.”

He stepped out of the bedroom, ready to meet the day. There were two major services each week at the Church of the Divine Pentecost, and in two hours, he would preside over the first one. He would tell his flock to exalt in the glory of God and his son Jesus Christ, and using passages from the good book, salted with his own motivational techniques, he would explain to each of them how the poor and struggling were not consigned permanently to their lot. Forget about Jesus washing the feet of the lepers and exalting the poor. That was all good and well, but it misunderstood what true Christianity was about. God, he would tell them, didn’t love poverty. God loved prosperity. And Vanessa would get a new pool lining and a new car, and a new diamond choker for her graceful, impeccably-tanned neck, new bangles for her wrists, the kids would swim in scooters and day-trips and video games, and oh, how the money would roll in. 

Forever, and ever, amen.

* * *

When Cal walked into the kitchen, his son Isaac and his daughter Katrina were already seated at the table, eating cereal and buttered toast. The kitchen was exactly as you’d expect from a man who was well off - stainless steel appliances, marble floors, two (!!) different kitchen islands, and a custom skylight. The refrigerator even had a camera display so you could see the food without opening the door… and this could be streamed wirelessly to your smartphone if you wanted a remote view of the dinner possibilities for the night. Cal enjoyed bragging to his circle of friends about this feature; it showed he was a forward-thinking pastor who wasn’t afraid of modern technology in the digital age.

Isaac was dressed in white shirt and black suit with a black string tie and a crucifix clasp - his standard attire for church days. Katrina, with mousy brown hair pulled back tastefully in a ponytail, looked just as puritan in a navy dress that was extremely modest in terms of hem and bustline. Nonetheless, it was clear that the shape of her blossoming thirteen-year-old body was at the point that there was no use trying to completely hide her feminine curves. Cal felt a twinge of regret at that, but also pride - Vanessa was a beautiful woman, and those genetic advantages had been passed on to their daughter. The fact that somewhere in the great wide world, a good, strong Christian boy was dangling her eventual defloration between his legs was something he would eventually have to accept…but not yet. Until she was eighteen at least, he intended to keep her on ice. No dating. No silly parties. And certainly no daring dresses and risque swimsuits, like the ones he’d seen on television and the internet.

“Where’s your brother?” Cal asked, and the two kids looked at him with momentary confusion before speaking up.

“Oh, _ Bobby _,” Katrina said, smiling with embarrassment. “Sorry, it’s so weird to have, like… an extra brother. I’m still getting used to it.”

“He’s putting on the suit mom got him,” Isaac said, and Cal nodded with satisfaction. Bobby’s wardrobe had been rather dark once he joined them; consisting mostly of black tee-shirts, athletic shorts with waistbands worn to inelasticity, and dirty-looking, scuffed jeans. He certainly couldn’t wear any of those things to service, so Cal had authorized Vanessa to take him shopping and get him a smart-looking suit in order to celebrate God’s love… and to look good while holding the offering box! He heard footsteps coming down the hall and expected it would be Bobby… but when he saw the boy, a wave of surprise and unreality swept over him.

Bobby was wearing his suit - black jacket, black slacks, black shoes, black tie, white shirt - but the fit and gangly boy carried it off in a totally different way than Isaac did. For one thing his tie was a four-in-hand rather than a string, which made the entire look more mature. The tailoring was better - Vanessa had obviously gotten the suit professionally fitted - and instead of swimming in the sleeves or looking like a kid playing with an adult businessman’s costume, narrow shoulders beneath big shoulder pads, the jacket and slacks were trim and showed off Bobby’s slender body and graceful legs and arms. When he walked into the room with his black bangs swept over one eye and down to one perfect cheekbone, Cal had a momentary vision.

_ The man in black. He reminds me of a kid Johnny Cash! _

This was not the effect Cal had intended when he got Bobby dressed up. While Isaac’s suit had a way of infantilizing the boy in a Little Lord Fauntleroy sort of way, Bobby’s suit worked the opposite magic.  
  
“You look like-” Cal cut himself off, realizing he was on the verge of verbalizing his thoughts. “You look good,” he finished lamely.

“Thanks,” Bobby said, sitting down at the table. “I didn’t think I would look good in clothes like this… but I think it suits me well, don’t you think?”  
  
Cal only nodded as his own thoughts were verbalized with uncanny precision. “Yes,” he said, and looked back and forth between Isaac and Bobby as they sat at opposite ends of the table, with Katrina in between. Isaac had the same hair and eye color as his - brown and brown - but in his suit he looked like a kid playing dressup. His body was softer than Bobby’s and so was his facial expression and in general, his demeanor. He could have taken a picture and labeled the two boys Sharp and Dull.

“So, I guess we should talk about this little matter from yesterday,” Cal began, walking over to the fridge to get himself a glass of milk. It was covered with refrigerator magnet letters; and the kids would amuse themselves by arranging them into words. “This… mask you made.”

“Oh gosh, I saw it,” Katrina said, her face impressed. “_ Super _ creepy! Like, not like kid masks you get at the Halloween store but more like something from a movie.”

Cal looked back over his shoulder. “And what movies have you been watching with such things, young lady?” he admonished. 

Katrina turned red at once, and looked down at her plate. “Oh, I’d never watch a movie like that, daddy - I just saw the cover on Lisa’s Netflix account when we were looking for other stuff to watch.” She was lying, Cal saw - but he couldn’t judge whether it was a lot or a little. He decided not to make an issue of it for the moment, but he would have to have a talk to Katrina about her media consumption habits. A parent could never be too careful - Cal judged that most forms of media had a corrupting effect on young ladies.

“When I see young men dressing up in scary costumes - glorifying the macabre - I don’t see any glorification of God there, Bobby,” he lectured. “And in this house, this family… we put God first.” He shut the door after grabbing the milk and his eyes focused on a set of fridge magnet letters right at his eye level. Someone had arranged them to read:

SIC LUCEAT LUX

Cal lost his train of thought. It was Latin, right? He realized he was simply standing awkwardly in the middle of his lecture and pushed the thought away from his mind. “If you want to apply your artistic skills, Bobby, let’s work together and come up with something more constructive,” he finished. “Something as beautiful in the eyes of god as it is to the eyes of everyone here on earth.”

Bobby was chewing a piece of toast and his green eyes flickered over to Cal. “Sure, Dad,” he said, and his voice was gentle and clean as his new suit. Cal felt a surge of something like pride at the boy calling him ‘dad’, and at the same time felt like Bobby was getting off too easily - addressing him in a way he knew would placate him. But if he made any more of an issue out of it, he was sure to look like an ogre in front of his other two children.

“Good,” he said. Sitting down himself. After a swig of milk, he looked back at the fridge and then back to the table. “Does anyone know what that phrase means, written with the fridge magnets?”

Isaac, stuffing his face with buttered toast and a bowl of Frost Flakes, shook his head with disinterest. Katrina tried to parse it but only shook her head in wonderment, failing even to pronounce the words. Cal was just about to start explaining Latin (and also his theory that their mother had perhaps read it in the online crossword puzzles she was always doing) when Bobby spoke up in the same even, gentle voice.

_ “Thus, let the light shine.” _

There was a moment of silence. Bobby tore the crusts off of his toast and ate the buttered bread, dusting crumbs from his hands. Then Katrina broke the silence. “Woooow! You can read that? Is it from the bible?”

Bobby shot Cal a look and shook his head. “No,” he answered, and then, amazingly, winked. “Right dad?”  
  
Cal cleared his throat. “R-right, of course.” He did not know where it came from… only that it seemed to carry a sinister meaning beyond the mere words. Isaac glared and rolled his eyes at Bobby, perhaps already thinking the boy was a know-it-all. But even as Isaac grew further apart from his new brother, Katrina seemed to take a greater interest in him.

“Well, I think it’s pretty,” she said, smiling at Bobby sweetly. “Light, shining down on all of us.” Cal noticed the top button of her dress was undone. When had that happened?

“Button that top button, sweety,” Cal chided, gently. The blouse was rather modest, but with the top button broken, the outline of the top of Katrina’s developing chest was visible. The inappropriateness of it, combined with the off-kilter tenor of the conversation, added to the strangeness of the breakfast. Katrina blushed and re-fastened it. 

Cal poured himself a bowl of cereal and they ate the remainder of breakfast in silence.

* * *

Vanessa felt guilty snooping in Bobby’s drawers; when she found his drawings she told herself it was perhaps a sort of sin to look at them, and hesitated with her hand on the cover of the sketchbook she had discovered in the bottom of the bedside table, beneath various activity books and a video game controller bundled up in its own wires. 

She knew her newly adopted son was an artist; she had seen him scribbling and sketching during interviews at the adoption agency. There was a playroom there, and though Bobby was too old to enjoy many of the things in it, he did like to sit down and paint or color; Vanessa had found these abbreviated sketches and doodles to have a rough-but-recognizable quality that was admirable. He didn’t draw big exaggerated faces or lemon-colored suns beating down from two-dimensional skies. Instead, he drew shapes that formed abstract versions of things; such that it took a moment of exploring and concentration to figure out what a given image was. But once you recognized it - the half-triangle was a nose, the rosey blot a blushing cheek, and so on - you couldn’t see it as anything else.

CLACK! A picture frame fell over and Vanessa uttered a peep. Her large breasts, hanging down in her white cotton undershirt as she leaned over the drawer from the end table’s side, had brushed against the corner of a picture of Bobby standing with both she and Cal, and caused it to tip. “Goodness,” she muttered, and straightened the frame. She was a beautiful woman, well-endowed in breast and thigh, and in another life might have wiled away her 20’s and 30’s as the desired object of a wealthy man. But she had been aimless after leaving high school, and though male interest had come, the closest she had come to putting her round rear and large breasts to work in such a way was a brief stint as a Hooters waitress. The church, and Cal, had filled a void in her life. Now, her job was to act as matron of the Sterling-family clan; a smiling public face who by her very presence implied to the parishioners that a woman with her charms was waiting to fall into the arms of any man who glorified god and believed in His good word - delivered care of Cal Sterling, and specifically at the Church of the Divine Pentecost.

The contract between her and Cal - that she look good and represent the family and the church - was unspoken, but she still took it seriously. She had gorgeous, movie-starlet dark hair, almost black, and with the slightest turn of her head could send it cascading and swirling in ways that would have made a shampoo commercial jealous. She kept her legs and arms toned, and favored sleeveless blouses and tight shorts in the summertime. Nothing lewd, of course - but those male parishioners who attended service could attest that her chest was a fine example of God’s infinite bounty. When she wore lighter fabrics, it was easy to imagine that one could see the puffy shape of her large nipples. Her skin was always evenly tanned and glistening with a gorgeous sheen; she used moisturizer every night. Her fingernails were immaculate but not gaudy. Her feet were also lovely - allowing her to wear open-toed strappy heels and sandals when out in the summer. Katrina loved to accentuate her grey-green eyes with smoky mascara and long, dark eyelashes. Isaac had once come home from school and asked her what a “MILF” was, since the other boys were referring to her as one. Once she learned the definition, Katrina was utterly scandalized and disgusted by the boys’ blasphemy… but also slightly flattered.  
  
She adjusted her breasts in her bra, looking to avoid a repeat of the picture-frame tipping problem, and quickly flipped to the first page of Bobby’s sketchbook. Distantly, in the kitchen, she heard the murmur of conversation. The family was sitting down to breakfast; she herself had yet to fully dress for church, though she would have to start quickly. 

What she saw made her gasp.

The art was good. Very good. Better than she could have ever expected. Months before, talking to Bobby, Cal had suggested that perhaps he could draw some images from the bible, or something else celebrating the good works of God and Jesus Christ. Bobby had said ‘sure’, but she had never seen anything religious-themed since then… until now.

The image, made of of tight and clean lines, was a woodcut of a man crawling to shelter under a joshua tree in the barren desert, with the sun beating down. Vanessa looked closer, and the man’s face was pure agony - he was sweating, and appeared to be dying of exposure. The full effect was entirely unsettling. And under the image, in Bobby’s simple handwriting, was the inscription:  
  
_ “The rock will not hide nor the dead tree give shelter from His judgment” _

Vanessa thought back to her explorations of the Bible. She knew a few passages by heart, many more roughly; but Cal didn’t quote or refer to the Bible in ways that, as he put it, would make people “feel icky”. He wanted services at the Church of the Divine Pentecost to be ‘uplifting’ and ‘dialed-in’ to the needs of the modern worshiper; this didn’t include long and arduous parables about suffering being the lot of the penitent man. In this way, while Bobby’s drawing was religious, even pious… it didn’t fit in with Cal’s philosophy at all.

“Oh dear,” she muttered to herself, examining the line work. An asp was slithering out from behind the joshua tree; seeming to indicate that any man who seeks respite from the wrath of the Almighty would find his path fraught with serpents. And in the sky, the relentless sun beating down. 

She turned the page, not wanting to look at it anymore. Vanessa didn’t know why the picture made her feel uncomfortable, why it made her cheeks flush and her taut tummy tremble, but it did. But the image behind it was no better. In it, a rumpled troubadour on a city street sat slumped with his guitar case open and piled high with money… but it was obvious the man was dead; his face was gaunt and his head falling back at an angle. Below was the inscription:

_ Make no music but with human tongue, saith the Lord. _

Peeking out from behind the clouds above was an archangel, glowing down at the man; this looked uncannily like Cal.  
  
“Oh my!” Vanessa gasped. The turned the page again, not wanting to see the gaunt cheeks, the crooked neck of that mouldering man on the city bench. But the next image made her drop the book with a gasp.

It was a mother and child, the boy draped over her her knee and being given to suck at her breast, which seemed large and full; the boy perhaps too old to be engaging in such an intimate practice. She had let her cloak fall from her shoulders to bare her chest, the boy was in a swaddle of robes, and yet in the area of his genitals, the cloth seemed to bend around a large and intimidating phallic shape.  
  
_ He can’t have meant to draw it that way, _ Vanessa reasoned. _ He’s just a boy. Just a beginning artist. He drew the lines wrong, and made it seem like the boy in the picture had… had a large penis! _

More than that, the breastfeeding mother had certain… characteristics… that were familiar. Eye makeup. Dark hair spilling down her shoulders. The shape of her cheekbones and her mouth. Bracelets on each wrist. Vanessa looked down at her own wrists and saw she was, indeed, wearing silver hoops in the exact same place as the woman in the painting. And there was something else - something anachronistic to the otherwise biblical or ancient look of the figures. A pair of reading glasses, hanging around the mother’s neck from a fine chain.  
  
_ She _ wore reading glasses. Vanessa looked at the inscription.

_ Long is the way and hard that out of Hell leads up to light. _

Long. Hard. These words had been scribbled over multiple times to make them appear bold. “Oh my!” Vanessa gasped again. She dropped the book back into the drawer. She had seen a window into her new son’s mind and what was inside had shocked her. The unexpected intimacy of it - knowing his true artistic talent level, knowing the focus and theme of his output… knowing he had… certain kinds of thoughts. She felt a rush of excited worry. She couldn’t tell Cal about this - not yet. Not when she was already worried he wouldn’t take to the boy.

She had only come into the room to change Bobby’s sheets and gather his laundry, a task she performed for all three of her children prior to dressing for services on the weekend. She placed the book carefully back where it had come from, making sure it looked just as it had been before, and then threw back Bobby’s rumpled coverlet.

“Oh my Lord Jesus!” she hissed, clapping her hands to her mouth.

The bed as absolutely _ covered _ with semen. There was so much it had actually puddled into still-wet pools in places… and long, heavy strands were drying and becoming tacky all the way from the middle to the foot of the bed. A powerful scent of male emissions - unmistakeable for what it was - wafted into her voice and she turned her head and winced. The smell was so _ powerful _ . She knew that her son Isaac sometimes masturbated at night - she had seen the evidence, and decided not to tell Cal about it. Isaac was 11, and his output had been only a few cloudy streaks. But _ this _… it looked like Bobby shot as much as a horse!

She extended her hand and ran her fingers through one of the cum pools, moaning at the nasty, gelatinous consistency and the lubricated wetness of it. More cum stink wafted in her face. The semen was so thick she could gather it in big, chunky handfuls… and the undried strands could be picked up like long, white worms.

_ An 11-year-old boy did this _ , she thought, and the wrongheadedness of it made her shudder. Yet, it seemed to be true. Certainly nobody else had slept in Bobby’s bed, and some other explanation like the boy gathering semen from condoms to play a grotesque prank seemed remotely plausible. Her mind returned to the woodcut image of the Madonna and overaged, breast-feeding child, with that large protrusion in his robes, and her hand lingering near it as she gave him to suck. Her stomach quivered and Vanessa felt her nipples harden and her heart begin to beat more quickly. She inhaled again and again her nose and sinuses filled with the scent of pure, concentrated semen. How could a boy shoot so much? Why did he leave his bed in such a state, for her to find, absolutely splattered with his _ huge loads _?

Even thinking of a boy in such terms made her feel sinful. But she couldn’t help but ask herself - how _ big _ would Bobby’s balls have to be to produce so much? She had never actually seen him naked; even when being measured for the suit, which might have required him to strip to his underwear, he insisted on talking to the tailor alone. She had dismissed it as harmless juvenile modesty, or a desire to show his new mother that he could handle ‘adult’ tasks himself. As a result she hadn’t seen him undress, so she really had no idea what his genitals looked like.

She heard the clank of dishware from the breakfast table, and it reminded her that time was of the essence. She grasped great handfuls of the coverlet and the smeared sheets and balled them up, dumping them into the laundry hamper, causing the thick, white seminal discharge to clump up on her fingers. A waft of the semen-smell hit her nose again and she groaned. It was so nasty… but in the context of her new son she found she wasn’t disgusted. Rather, she felt like she had discovered a secret, and it was her parental duty to deal with it in a way that didn’t make Bobby feel strange or self-conscious.

“Oh… god!” she breathed, as she saw the chunky cum wads clinging to her fingers. Her hands were a mess and the sheets were damp and heavy with cum as she made her way down the hall toward the brightly-lit laundry room where the washer-dryer was kept. 

“Vanessa?” came Cal’s voice, and she heard his chair scrape against the tile. The door to the laundry room was shut, and the footfalls of his smart Sunday-best shoes were clopping on the floor, moments away from entering the hall and catching her with cum-loaded sheets and hands. The coverlet was so loaded with sperm she couldn’t wipe her hands on it - and attempting to do so on her clothing would only leave huge clumpy streaks of semen! “Vanessa, did you take Bobby to Spencer’s like I asked? Because this suit…”

She did the only thing she could.

Vanessa one cum-covered hand to her mouth and, with pursed, puffy lips, started sucking up the clumpy wads of thick semen. Her tongue worked over her fingers the crevices in between each digit as she slurped up her 11-year-old son’s nasty cum wads, making sure each hand was clean. Cal stepped into the hall but his view was partially blocked by the laundry basket; she had time to finish one hand, adjust the basket, and start sucking at the other. The scent and taste of pure boy sex filled her mouth. She was eating pure sperm - the same sperm that had fired out of her adopted son’s underage cock. She had never, enthusiastically or otherwise, engaged in such a consumptive act even during sex; but her desire to protect Bobby from her husband’s scrutiny was so strong that it purred inside her like a revving engine. Cal didn’t like squeaky wheels - he wanted everything to run smoothly. And if he found out his son was having nighttime emissions that would make a stallion blush…

She filled her mouth from her second hand and let the thick semen run all over her tongue and the inside of her cheeks. It tastes so strong. She almost felt the illusion that she could feel those big, fat, wriggling tadpoles wriggling in the white gelatinous mess, looking for eggs to impregnate. 

Gulp. “Nnngh!” Vanessa moaned, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand just as Cal peeked around the laundry basket.

“Vanessa,” he said. “Bobby says he asked you to take him to a private tailor? Alighieri’s?” He seemed flustered, and in his agitation didn’t notice the blushing look on her face or her freshly-licked hands. “I wish you had consulted me first.”

“We can afford it, dear. And he seemed to have an interest in fashion,” Vanessa replied, looking guilty. “It hardly seemed right to stifle him.” She paused. “I don’t remember what the place was called. It wasn’t Alighieri’s. Massimo’s? A little hole in the wall shop near Beacon Street. Very ‘Little Italy’.”

“_ Bobby _ said it was Alighieri’s. But I don’t care if it was called Guido’s Wophouse,” Cal grumbled, sourly. “The point is, it’s a very slick suit, but… it’s not quite the effect I wanted. And the boy needs to learn he can’t be treated special, with his every whim taken care of. He has to respect our choices, as his parents.”

Vanessa gave him a rather sour and hurt look, and Cal held up his hands and backpedaled a little. “I’m overreacting,” he said. “You’re right. It’s… it’s a smart-looking suit.”

“It’s okay to treat him special, Cal,” she lectured. “He’s our son. He’s spending his first weeks as part of a new family. Honestly, sometimes I think you care more about the flock at CDP than you do about your own boy!” 

“If have strong opinions about how he’s treated and how he acts, it’s only because I do care,” Cal shot back, and now there was some color in his cheeks as well. He let out a sigh, and this seemed to dissipate any acrimony between them. “I don’t… I don’t know if he should be up there with us today. I don’t know if he’s ready.” He referred to the planned portion of the service where he and Vanessa would introduce Bobby to the flock as a new member of the family. Cal was planning to spin it off into a sermon - carefully constructed to solicit support and tithes, of course - about the importance of family, being fruitful, and multiplying, even while overcoming adversity. But Bobby had irked him all morning, and now he was having his doubts whether the boy could take it seriously. They had already taken him to several services; he had always sat dutifully and been well-behaved. But as far as playing his part… could he be trusted? Cal didn’t know.

“That will only make him feel more excluded,” Vanessa said, her eyes filled with worry. “Bobby said he would do it. Why would you have second thoughts?”

“I don’t know,” said Cal. “Perhaps I’m just being silly.”

Vanessa touched his arm reassuringly. He did not notice that her hands were still slightly wet. “Go finish up breakfast,” she said. “I’ll be along after I take care of this load.” Her brain immediately buzzed - phrasing! - but lamely adding ‘of laundry’ to the end would only make it stand out more. Cal, seeming placated, turned and walked down the hall.

She had two hours until the service to think about what she had done, and what she was going to do.

* * *

Bobby’s first gathering with the Church of the Divine Pentecost was like none before it. The church itself was a converted warehouse, if one looked carefully, one could see that the improvements bought and paid for by Cal (all via the generous donations of his flock), were only skin deep. A layer of carpet covered only some of the cement; there were pews the center rows but others had to sit in endless lines of chairs. The altar and pulpit were on a raised stage, above which the overhead lighting and scaffolding was more reminiscent of a rock concert than the hallowed halls of Notre Dame or Santa Maria. Indeed, while installing it, the contractor had bragged about doing a ‘bitchin’’ stage setup Iron Maiden.  
  
The sound system was state of the art, making Cal’s voice boom over the hum of the industrial air system that kept the place livable summer and winter. This same sound system would play rousing Christian hymns and music during the ‘praise’ a period where Cal could rile up the crowd and get them excited about the glory of God and Jesus Christ His Son… riled enough to open their wallets.

Cal held court on the stage, in a powder-blue suit with a cross-embroidered maniple draped over his shoulders, while the rest of the family sat in chairs on either side if they weren’t engaged in other duties. Vanessa and Katrina took turns running the music. “And it says in Matthew 18:5,” he bellowed, with sweat on his wrinkled brow like he was the second coming of Jimmy Swaggart. “He who receives one child in my name shall receive me.” Cal had to be careful how he talked about Bobby; being a non-denominational church built around the idea that prosperity was okay, and that Christians didn’t have to bend over and give money to every homeless person just because Jesus said some stuff once, he tended to downplay Jesus’ spiel about taking in orphans. But it was glorying oneself with an adoption, bathing in the grace of God? That was fine. “Come up here, Bobby! Show them your face! Come up here with Isaac, your new brother. Show them that we’re all brothers!”

The crowd was getting emotional and Cal knew that meant money. Bobby and Isaac came up in their suits, Bobby looking slick in his black and white and Isaac softer in his grey with string-tie. Cal clapped his hands on the shoulders of both boys and held them against his hips, and Isaac tossed Bobby a rather distrustful glance that the congregation mostly missed. “We’re all a family,” Cal repeated. “And when your stove is broken and you need to fix it, who do you call? Your family. When your car’s engine stops working, who can you trust to give you a fair deal? Your family.” The music, playing in the background, added to the atmosphere of praise; Cal could see he really had the place humming. He spotted old Miss Carlyle, who was 88 and confined to a wheelchair, rocking and gesticulating in her seat. Each week she came to get his blessing, to get healing for the arthritis that tortured her body, to get absolution from Cal and his slick tongue. And each time he put his hand on old Miss Carlyle’s head and told her that God would give her his blessing, he found another $200 in the collection plate, courtesy of her pension. Sometimes, on religious holidays, it could go as high as a thousand.

“I had no fear about taking this new life into my family because I know I had a family of thousands,” Cal went on, hugging Bobby to his side. The boy stared straight ahead with no expression. “I knew that if Bobby needed a dentist or a doctor or new schoolbooks, I could count on the grace of God, working through all of you. Say ‘Hallelujah!’”

The congregation did, and Vanessa smiled as she saw Cal incorporate Bobby so effortlessly into the routine. Even Katrina seemed to be getting a kick out of it, from her seat off to the side of the podium. Only Isaac looked rather jealous and upset, and Vanessa knew she would have to have a talk with him. She treasured him, as she did all her children, and wanted him and Bobby to get along and help each other like true brothers. Isaac was so enamored with being the favored male child - the one Cal used to tug at people’s heartstrings. Seeing the look of distrust on his face made her heart sink.

“Who wants to come up?” Cal was saying. “Who has something to say about the grace and love of god? Who wants God to lift that financial and emotional burden from their shoulders?” This was a period in every service, before the sermon, when people who were overcome with the spirit could make their way to the stage and receive a touch on the head and some comforting words. Cal and Isaac would perform these touches, normally, and this week, Cal intended to show Bobby was part of the family by having him participate as well. His instructions to the boy were simple - Bobby was to place his hand on the heads of the faithful and say one of a number of phrases. If they had something to say - something about a personal trouble, illness, or financial difficulty, he was to listen and then give the same blessing, assuring them that all ills could be cured with the power of god.

The line of parishioners came up and split into three. Sometimes people would get very animated - speaking in tongues and gesticulating with seizure-like movements as they were overcome by the holy spirit. Cal didn’t mind it. Such shows of faith - performative as he thought they might be in his private moments, though he would never admit it - helped to loosen the pursestrings. He only hoped that none of these ‘enthusiastic faithful’ would go into fits in front of Bobby. It could be a strange thing to watch for a first time. Though really, the kid seemed cool as a cucumber as he placed his hand on the heads of the people in his line and repeated what Cal had told him.

When Miss Carlyle arrived at the stage in her powered wheelchair, she happened to be in Bobby’s line. Cal decided, on the spur of the moment. “Miss Carlyle,” he announced, his voice ringing through the speaker system. “So faithful, here with us every week. 88 years old and blessed by god.” He walked over next to Bobby as she approached, and a clap went up from the crowd as the old bird, her emaciated body wrapped in a shawl, became the center of attention.

“Oh, Mister Sterling, praise Jesus and the Lord God,” she croaked. “My arthritis pains me somethin’ awful. I need the Lord to take my pain away. Each week I ask, and it comes and it goes… but it’s been gettin’ worse.” She held out hands with the knuckles grotesquely beneath liver-spotted skin. Tears were running from the corners of her wrinkled eyes - tears of pain from an old woman with a body rebelling against her. “And now they say I’ve got this bone cancer. I just say, ‘help me Lord’. ‘Help me Lord. Deliver me from this pain.’” The look on her face was one of bewilderment and confusion, as if she didn’t understand why she was being made to suffer so. Eyes filled with cataracts gazed into Bobby’s young face with naked desperation.  
  
But the boy was like a rock. He held out his hand and placed it on Miss Carlyle’s head. The crowd was abuzz at the image - an old woman at the end of her life, receiving absolution from a dark-haired young child, the cycle of life in one tableaux. Bobby turned his eyes up to Cal and give him a knowing look.  
  
“Go ahead, son,” Cal prompted. But Bobby did nothing, only looked at Cal.

“Do you want release from your suffering?” Bobby asked, in a soft voice, and amazingly, Miss Carlyle gripped his thin wrist with both of her arthritis-riddled hands and kissed it.

“Yes!” she gasped. “Oh, yes! Lord, release me from this pain!”

Bobby looked up at Cal again, and Cal felt a sudden chill, the sense that something was amiss. He was accustomed to being in total control of his services and his message. He was just about to open his mouth and tell Bobby to go ahead, to bless the rich old biddie and move on to the next one… but all he got out of his mouth was “Bobby-” before something went wrong.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

Miss Carlyle gasped and her head cocked back. A low and powerful moan rose from her lips. The crowd started to grow loud and applaud, creating a din along with the Christian music in the background. “Yes, sister!” cried a man from several rows back. “Let the Lord’s spirit take you! Let God into your body and feel his love!” 

Miss Carlyle’s eyes rolled back and her tongue forked out of her mouth. She made a ghastly choking noise and her head began to snap left and right as she foamed at the mouth. Cal’s eyes went wide; the old bitch wasn’t getting _ into the spirit _, she was having a fucking seizure! “Oh, Jesus!” he gasped. Her chest burst forward and her crooked spine, hunched over, crackled as it went from hunched over to bent back. Spit flew into the air from her gasping mouth. Her hands flew from Bobby’s wrist and started gesticulating, clenching, opening and closing in the air. 

“Bobby, stop it!” Cal cried. “Bobby, hold her!” 

But Bobby didn’t move. He simply stood with his hand on Miss Carlyle’s head, not flinching as she moved and spit and her limbs flailed. She exploded forward out of her chair and tumbled to the ground, croaking, eyeballs rolling in their deep sockets, her jaundiced yellow-white hair splayed out behind her as she stared blindly at the ceiling. Bobby knelt down with her and kept his hand on her head. His facial expression never changed.  
  
The crowd quickly began to realize that something was wrong. There were gasps and overturned chairs as people stood up to get a better view, and several ran forward to the stage. Vanessa cut the music off and the clamor of voices threatened to drown out all else. Katrina and Isaac watched, eyes as big as saucers, as the old woman seemed set to violently expire before their very eyes.

“Y-you!” Miss Carlyle said, looking up at Bobby with milked-over eyes. Flecks of drool were on her dried out liver lips. “You! You’re…. You’re…”

Bobby never wavered, even when flecks of foam from the old woman’s gasping, spasming mouth splattered against his cheek. He only looked down at her with his unblinking green eyes, black bangs hanging over one of them, as she stared up, looking through him toward the lighting rig. To her, the blazing lamps must have seemed to be a host of angels, shuffling her off this mortal coil.

“Bobby, goddamn it!” Cal said, and his microphone, slack at his side, didn’t pick up his blasphemy. He slid onto the stage and looked down at Miss Carlyle. He didn’t want the old woman dying on him; not after all those weeks of receiving God’s grace at his church. He raised the mic back to his lips. “Is there a doctor in the house?” Cal asked. “We could use some assistance here.”

There _ was _ \- Cal’s doctrines were very uplifting for the wealthy, after all - and the bald, sweater-wearing medical man didn’t need to graduate first in his class at medical school to tell Cal what the deal was. Miss Carlyle was dying. After a moment of performing some chest compressions, lightly, for he didn’t care damage her brittle frame - he upgraded the assessment to “dead”. Bobby kept his hand on her head the whole time, only removing it when no gasp of life remained. Only then did he stand and look down at her with what seemed to Cal to bean impassive expression. Not so for his other children. Isaac looked ready to begin weeping, and Katrina’s wide, beautiful green-grey eyes - mirroring her mother’s - were open and devouring every detail. For both of them it would be their first time seeing something like this, and this irked Cal to no end, since he was careful about what sorts of media they consumed. The look on Katrina’s face especially unnerved him. Isaac’s response he could accept - a kid was supposed to cry when something was scary, after all - but Katrina looked like a just-unlocked door, an interior being flooded with new and exciting knowledge about human mortality.

Considering the circumstances, Cal cancelled the rest of the service… and informed his parishioners that the praise gathering would resume the next day as scheduled, during which time a remembrance would be held for Miss Carlyle. He shut off his microphone and stepped down from the stage. The old woman, and her $200/week, were gone forever, and his new son Bobby had played a part in it. 

He looked over at the boy and found Bobby was staring right back at him. Cal felt a momentary twinge of fear, without precisely knowing why. 

* * *

“Brain hemorrhage and heart attack,” Cal said, flatly, and the EMT nodded.

“Yeah. Simultaneously. There was nothing you could have done. That tough old lady - her body just couldn’t hold out anymore. Her family told me she had Stage 4 bone cancer and was coming off pneumonia. Honestly she shouldn’t even have been here.” The EMT stubbed out a cigarette and stamped it with his foot. Cal listened with an impassive, understanding face, not hinting that he had been the one who had encouraged Miss Carlyle, in spite of her tremendous pain, to attend every service, to ask God for help, and, in an unspoken manner, to keep making her $200 donations.

“Well, thanks for doing what you could,” Cal said. The ambulance was in the parking area; they were not even going to bother turning the lights and sirens on. Miss Carlyle was dead without any doubt or question. Death was pronounced at 11:25 AM, Pacific Time, it was now 11:45.

Meanwhile, Vanessa, Isaac, Katrina, and Bobby stayed in the large back room that the family used to prepare for each service. It was filled with audio equipment, props for special occasions (Cal occasionally performed marriage ceremonies, and there was a white wicker arch for use in such unions), and, filling large bowls, the pieces of simple bread wafer used for the Lord’s Supper, which was performed each weekend. Part of Isaac and Bobby’s duties had been taking these wafers and portioning them out, but the service had ended before they could be used.

“That poor woman,” Vanessa lamented, and everyone nodded.

“You were really brave, Bobby,” Katrina said. They were both leaning against the wall, she a head taller than her, her blossoming body curvier than his thin one. The look on her face was something like admiration. “I would have been screaming my head off.”

Isaac, leaning against the wall on the opposite side of Katrina, shot Bobby another look of contempt. Vanessa caught the frustrated look on Isaac’s face, and she moved to comfort him. “You were brave too, Isaac,” she chided, and stood beside the boy, pulling his head into her breasts - large and round even confined in her modest church dress - and petted his hair. But he hadn’t been… and they all knew it. Even Isaac knew it. The evidence of his crying was still painted on his cheeks in twin streaks of moisture. And the fact that Bobby had compared favorably in this area of composure made the boy jealous. Isaac decided he didn’t like his new brother.

Katrina shot her mother a look, almost rolling her eyes, as if to say _ Isaac is such a momma’s boy crybaby _ , and then she reached out and took Bobby’s hand. Vanessa returned the look, as if to say _ I know, but what can I do _.

“We shouldn’t waste the Lord’s Supper stuff,” Bobby said, suddenly, his voice flat and inflectionless in the room. “We can at least do the ceremony here, as a family.” He moved off the wall and took two steps the table, gathering some wafers. There were also large jugs of grape juice; usually a congregation would go through two or three of these, even at a rate of just one sip each.

“Well, Bobby, usually your father does-” Vanessa started, feeling a tingle, thinking about how this was uncharacteristic of the boy.

“I can do it,” Bobby said. 

Isaac spoke up out of annoyance. “Only a priest can give the eucharist,” he said, crossly. “Dad told me. This is dumb anyway!” A whiny tinge had crept into his voice that made Vanessa wince and release him. The way Isaac dealt with problems and the way Bobby dealt with problems were so different, and she couldn’t help but admire Bobby for it. 

“Isaac, stop being a jerk!” Katrina scolded.

“Only a validly ordained priest can _ bless and consecrate _ the eucharist,” Bobby said, holding out each hand, two bread wafers in his left, one in the right. “But dad already did that, before the service. Now, anyone can administer it.”

Katrina’s mouth turned to a smile. “Wow! You know your stuff, huh?” she said. 

Isaac glowered and rolled his eyes. “Mom, this is dumb! Let’s just wait for dad-”

“It’s alright, Isaac,” his mother replied. “If you don’t want to do it… don’t do it. But I think your sister and I are fine with it, aren’t we?” The two females of the Sterling family looked at each other and nodded an understanding, almost as if they had that shared tingling feeling inside them, that feeling that the newest member of the family was something special. 

“Kneel,” Bobby said. “Open your mouths and accept this gift.”  
  
There was a strange energy in the air. Both 35-year-old Vanessa and 13-year-old Katrina, their bodies images of each other, one the finished product, one the work-in-progress, swathes of gorgeous dark hair spilling down over their shapely shoulders and backs. Their two pairs of sensible heels poked out behind their feet as they knelt before Bobby.

Isaac watched from the wall as Bobby spoke. “This is my body,” the black-haired boy said, “Receive it in memory of me.” Vanessa opened her mouth even wider and slid her long, pink, agile tongue out until it was hanging lewdly over her lower lip, showing off dazzling white teeth. Katrina did the same. They were opening so wide it seemed their jaws would nearly break, and the way they were extending their tongues was exaggerated. They had looks of rapt joy on their faces. Isaac blinked, as if he was watching an illusion or a dream. It didn’t seem real. 

“Uaaaggh…” Vanessa groaned, like a woman saying ‘aaaahh!’ for a doctor’s tongue depressor. The sound was animalistic and dull, the sound an invalid would make, and in combination with the lolling tongue it was frightening. Katrina imitated this, twisting her gorgeous young features into mouth-stretched, tongue waggling imitation. She, too, made the nasty moaning noises - _ uaaaaaagh uawaaaagh, uhhhhhgh! _

Bobby pressed the wafers down into their mouths; one with his left hand, one with his right, and Vanessa and Katrina both moaned as she pressed his fingers up against their tongues, drawing their lips closed around his thumbs and sucking the thin wafer off of him… making consumptive noises as if they were savoring a delicious meal, not performing a divine sacrament. Isaac and Bobby exchanged a glance - the first boy terrified, the second boy knowing and smirking.

“Stop,” Isaac whispered, too scared to even raise his voice. Vanessa started sucking Bobby’s fingers, first the thumb and then adding another, and Katrina followed suit. They made smacking, slurping noises as they licked his forefingers and thumbs, pursing their lips around them and stretching their cheeks out as they sucked… _ slrrrp slllch slrrrp! _

“Glllllrg!” Vanessa moaned, and Isaac saw she was actually drooling, she had four of Bobby’s fingers in her mouth and she was bubbling down her chin like a baby in need of a bib. When Bobby withdrew his hands with a wet noise, spittle flew from both of the females’ mouths and they kept their puffy-lipped, glassy-eyed maws open like drooling sows, licking their tongues around their spit-slick lips! It was as if a spell had been cast over them! Isaac could not understand what he was seeing, but he knew it was wrong, it was nasty, and Bobby didn’t seem to care. He almost seemed like he expected it.

“Stop!” Isaac said again… but his words still had no will. They came out of his trembling mouth in a puff as feeble as his courage. His mom and sister just kept making those nasty suck-faces, and Bobby turned back to the table, preparing for a short period while they grunted and hyperventilated. Their backs seemed to arch a little and outthrust their buttocks, making big moon-shapes beneath the fabric of their knee-length dresses. Isaac felt a tingle in his genitals while watching this, but it was confusing and unwelcome.

“This is my spirit,” Bobby said, and turned back while holding two small glasses - barely larger than shot-glasses. These were the vessels used for the eucharist grape juice - with each sip, it would be Isaac’s job to wipe the rim with a cloth to prepare it for the next faithful - but the contents were too light in color to be grape juice. The glasses were stuffed to the brim with something thick, lumpy, and white.

_ No, _ thought Isaac. _ No, no, no, no. What is he feeding them? This is all wrong! _ But he remained paralyzed on the wall, not believing what he was seeing. 

“Drink this, in memory of me,” Bobby said, and he held out one glass to each woman. They didn’t so much drink as drive their long tongues into the glasses and start rimming them, hauling out fat globs of the white substance with blank-eyed looks on their faces. Isaac’s stomach churned as he saw clear snot running out of his mother’s nose and onto her upper lip as she sucked up that chunky goo. She was making out with that glass of nasty sludge and her eyes were rolled back like she was, much like the unfortunate Miss Carlyle earlier, a seizure victim. She made noises like animal - _ nnnngh, gllllch, hnnnngh, slrrrrrrp! _

Katrina was even worse. Isaac remembered her as a cute, smiling ‘big sis’, even before she started wearing darker eye makeup this year and had dared to take up her hemlines a little, but taking ‘communion’ from Bobby, she looked like a _ pig _ . She drove her tongue into the glass and swirled it around, gathering up every bit of goo and swallowing it indecently, leaving fat wads and strands smeared on her mouth, she wiggled her tongue around and tried to capture these with a _ slrrp slrrp slrrp slrrp _ noise. She, like her mother, was drooling. Isaac watched as long, gooey strand of white stuff nearly slid off her face but she grabbed it, stretched it out like a worm, and dropped it into her mouth. Then she and Vanessa started chewing, making exaggerated, dead-eyed masticating motions with sloshing liquid sounds, their cheeks puffed out, before opening their mouths and actually gargling, letting bubbles foam around the corners before closing and swallowing.

Bobby held court over it all, not moving, not speaking, only looking down on them with implacable satisfaction. Little by little, the females seemed to come back to their senses, pressing hands against their taut bellies and wiping their mouths. “Oh, God,” Vanessa moaned. “I was… I was overtaken by the spirit!”

“Me too, mom! I never felt something like that before!” Katrina added, and they had a worn, tired look to them, like two women whose bodies had been used to carry a hard electric current that had vanished as quickly as it appeared. Yet there was a knowing look in their eyes as well. They had seen plenty of people taken by ‘the spirit’, and they both knew, in their hearts, that it was only a performance - an expression of faith. Both of them had felt genuinely caught in something… powerful. For Katrina it _ was _ the first time. She imagined that it had been what sex with a boy would be like. The way her belly had trembled, the way her mouth had licked and sucked Bobby’s hand like it was second nature. It felt new and adult and exciting and like a dark secret she wanted to explore.  
  
For Vanessa, it was not the first time. She recognized the feeling. It was the same strange compulsion that had overtaken her that morning, when she threw back Bobby’s sheets and saw them absolutely soaked in semen. God, what had she done? And in front of Isaac-

She rose to her feet and wiped her mouth. Katrina rose as well. “W-we should clean our faces,” Vanessa suggested. They moved to gather napkins from the table and did just that, while Bobby looked over at Isaac. As they locked eyes, Bobby took the last Lord’s Supper wafer, flipped it effortless into the air like a coin, and caught it in his mouth, gulping it down in a most flippant, unreligious fashion. 

Then Bobby winked. 

Only then did Isaac paralysis break. The boy did the only thing his terrified mind would allow. He ran to the exit that led back into the church, burst through it, and kept going.

* * *

Later that day, after a sullen drive home, Katrina asked if she could walk the six blocks down to get Chinese food at the Dragon Palace. Cal grunted his assent from the living room couch, barely hearing her. He was already trying to figure out what he would say at the next day’s service. He would eulogize Miss Carlyle - that much was necessary - and he thought that perhaps if he whipped up enough exaltation and fervor, he could make back some of the contributions he had lost as a result of her dead. He barely noticed Bobby say that he would go too, and didn’t notice at all that Isaac had been silent and wan-faced ever since the events of the church service.

It would be Vanessa who tended to Isaac - it always had been. The boy had much of Cal’s desire to be prosperous but less of the will; this meant they sometimes butted heads. When that happened, it was always Vanessa who comforted him. She was a caring woman, very giving to her children, quick to embrace and caress and soothe, and Cal sometimes thought that Isaac needed a little more tough love. He found himself playing the hard case as a parent, with Vanessa as the ‘good cop’, always ready with an anointing word when he might raise his voice or show displeasure. What had happened that day, though, that hadn’t been Isaac’s fault. Maybe his biological son was a little indecisive, a little shy to be a good speaker, a little willowy to be an imposing physical presence… but in the matter of Miss Carlyle’s dead, he’d been nothing but a bystander.  
  
Bobby, now… Bobby had been front and center. He looked up as Bobby and Katrina were at the front door, preparing to make the walk down the hill, across the street and then four blocks more to the edge of downtown. He let he walk alone as far as Dragon Palace, but no further - that was the rule. No further downtown, and only in daylight. And with the sun only starting to show a bruised purple on the horizon, there were several hours of daylight left.

Cal saw that Katrine (and Bobby for that matter) had not even bothered to ask Isaac if he wanted any food, or to walk with them, and felt a burst of anger at his daughter as well. She had already changed from her church dress into some denim shorts and a thin-strapped blouse; he could have made the case that it was too risque but didn’t feel like the argument. She wore flats, but her legs were plenty long and shapely enough to attract attention regardless. 

“We’ll be back before dark,” she told him, and opened the front door. Bobby was still in his black suit, the jacket tossed over one narrow shoulder. He looked carefree as a bird, earning Cal’s resentment again. He put a roof over this orphan’s head and the first thing the boy did was kill his cash cow parishioner dead as Dillinger. 

_ That’s ridiculous, _ he thought, alarmed at where his mind had wandered. _ He didn’t do anything. He’s just a boy. _But then he thought of refrigerator magnets, arranged to spell out SIC LUCEAT LUX, and Bobby’s effortless Latin translation. There was something about the phrase that made his skin crawl. Thus let the light shine. Normally he would have associated that image with the glory of God in heaven… but for whatever reason, he couldn’t in this case. Instead, it felt like a revealing, probing, invasive light. A blinding light glistening on an idolator’s golden calf.

He shut his eyes and sighed. The sermon. He needed to figure out the sermon. Something fiery enough to make his flock forget what had happened the day before. He leaned his head back on the couch and began to brainstorm, thinking of Bobby and Katrina no further.

* * *

“I don’t like him, mom,” Isaac was saying, in a low whisper, choked with tears. “I don’t like him and I wish he would go away.”

They were laying on Isaac’s bed, cuddled up in his favorite way - him curled into a feta position and his mother wrapped around him, the bigger of two interlocking spoons. She had noticed his sullenness and worry and had come to him, and now he was spilling his concerns for the first time. Bobby, he said, seemed like a know-it-all and a weirdo, those terms were simple enough. But his young, 11-year-old vocabulary was unable to precisely articulate what his biggest problem with Bobby was - that he believed Bobby was lying. Not telling lies with his words, necessary, but fooling everyone in the family - Vanessa, Katrina, Cal - except for Isaac.

Fooling them in what way? To what end? He couldn’t explain. He just knew that Bobby was a jerk, and if his mom didn’t realize it, then he must be fooling her. He tried to explain this as he lay on his side with her arms around his waist and her big boobs pressing against his back in a way he secretly enjoyed. “Katrina thinks he’s so great,” Isaac complained. “I don’t know why she likes him.” Isaac and Katrina had been at odds ever since Katrina started to rebel a little against their father’s rules - wearing more revealing clothes, consuming more risque, non-Christian media (when she could get away with it). Isaac, who very much wanted Cal’s approval, had tattled on her relentlessly, leading to a rift between them that was still tender. “She’s probably being nice to him just to get back at me,” he realized aloud.

“Oh, Isaac… Bobby is your brother,” his mom whispered. “He’s a member of this family. He’s not your enemy. I’m sure he likes you, and he’ll like you even more when he gets to know you.”

“I don’t want to get to know him,” Isaac pouted. “He’s creepy.”

“Now, don’t say that, it’s very mean to call someone-”

“It’s true!” Isaac moaned, raising his voice. “You two act all weird at the Lord’s Supper because of him! Why? Because you thought he would like it?” He felt his mother’s heart race as he brought up this event, and her grip instinctively tighten around him.

“We were just... overtaken, Isaac. Filled with the Holy Spirit.” She knew this was at least partially a lie - she did now know _ what _ had overtaken her, and thought she hated to lie, she knew she couldn’t tell the truth. Instead, she leaned in and kissed Isaac’s neck. “I love you both. Bobby couldn’t make me love you any less. And you know your father feels the same way. Bobby is just different than you. You’re still the one he trusts, the one who will take over the church when he’s retired.”

This, at least, seemed to perk Isaac up a little. He understood the church was a performance, a way to make a livelihood. He had learned at his father’s knee to see the hunger for spirituality as a need that could be exploited to live a comfortable life. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Vanessa replied. “Cross my heart.” She hugged him close and Isaac felt those big, wonderful boobs smooshed against his back again, along with her perfume. His first sexual experience had been an experimental, nervous masturbating session with those very boobs in mind. He was only starting down the road of self-gratification, but in general, he found that he had to think of certain things in order to really get a response. One of his favorite things to think about was some of the pretty girls who came to the church, kneeling down in order to receive blessings, feeling so happy to have received God’s forgiveness. He wondered if, when he became pastor, he could make them do... things. (In these early stages he could barely conceive of what those things might be - but he did know he wanted people to like him and he wanted girls _ especially _ to like him.) Isaac might have felt guilty about these impulses but his the way his father treated the faithful - as a series of entries on a ledger - made those golden-haired young women, with their penitent kneeling in skirts and their closed eyes and their submissive waiting for absolution seem… less human. Barely real at all.

Bobby was the opposite. He felt very real, and everything he did seemed to have an effect on Isaac. He couldn’t admit it, but part of the reason for his dislike of Bobby was that the slick, black-haired boy, with his confidence, had frequently made Isaac look like a wimpy doofus by comparison. Isaac had panicked that day at the church. Bobby had not even cracked a sweat. 

_He’s hiding something_, Isaac thought. _He’s weird._ _He’s not right for this family and I’m going to prove it. _He did not know what form the proof would take. He might find porno mags, or catch him downloading porn videos on the family computer. He might catch him smoking cigarettes or even worse stuff, or hanging out with bad kids from back at the orphanage. He might catch him stealing, swearing or blaspheming. He didn’t know how, but Bobby would slip up eventually, and his mom and dad would see the newcomer for what he was.

When Vanessa patted him on the shoulder and told him to buck up and that things would get better, and he and Bobby would be the best of friends, Isaac exhaled and told her what she wanted to hear. “Alright,” he said. He felt her wait rise off of the bed and walk out of his room… and Isaac rose to a sitting position and then, standing on his bed, looked out the window that was on his room’s outside wall. The sun was just starting to set and two figures were walking down the hill toward downtown - Bobby and Katrina.

“What are they doing now?” he hissed to himself. 

He watched them a further few seconds, and then decided to follow them and find out.

  



	2. My Brother's Keeper

As Bobby and Katrina made their way down the gentle slope toward the Dragon Palace eatery, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the buildings of the downtown area in an orange and purple glow. Streetlights were beginning to come on and the neon signs of the various establishments further down Main Street were lit. Beyond that, past four lanes of traffic and the Petro-Chem fill-up station, the buildings got taller and the streets dirtier. This was an area that the Sterling children were forbidden to go unaccompanied by an adult. 

The landscape changed quickly in the six blocks between. The Sterling house was gated and opened up onto a private drive that in turn opened up onto Main Street. The children would have to walk past a park and several side-streets to pick up their food. The cars visible outside the wrought-iron gates were luxury sedans at the start of the trip, but by the time Bobby and Katrina hit the crossing of Main Street and Fulton, five blocks down, they were cheaper domestics with rusted bumpers and some of the lawns were overgrown.

Katrina felt a queer sort of excitement in venturing out with her new (well, relatively new) adopted brother, and almost took his hand to lead him along, before stopping herself with the reasoning that Bobby would not want to be treated with such “kid gloves”. She was only a just a teenager herself, of course, but still older than him and more than head taller. Bobby had left his suit jacket at the house, with the air being warm, and he had removed his tie, giving him a more casual look - Katrina thought the boy still looked rather handsome in this more casual way. It didn’t come from his clothes necessarily but from his utter confidence. She had not offered her hand, and he certainly hadn’t asked for it or required it. Much different from her biological brother, Isaac, who when younger tended to cling to their mother.

After church she had changed quickly into a halter top and denim shorts that went down to upper thigh, nothing immodest but still letting her shapely legs get some sun. Her hair was dark enough that she and Bobby  _ could _ have been biological brothers, to look at them from behind; they shared some of the same traits, both being thin, neat, well-groomed. But her face lacked something present in Bobby’s, an intangible quality told in stolen glances, as simple as her wanting her new brother to like her, and wanting to like him in turn, while Bobby was as impassive and unmoved as ever by what anyone thought.

“Have you ever had  _ maqlooba _ ?” Bobby asked, not looking at her, only standing by her side as they dawdled, waiting for the sparse traffic at the corner of the street before Fulton Avenue. 

“No,” Katrina said. “Is it Chinese food?” The pronunciation sounded strange to her, like the things on the Dragon Palance menu - egg foo yung, chicken su gai, and all the rest of the stuff almost as fun to say as it was to eat.

Bobby shook his head, and even seemed to smile a little. “No. It’s better. I can show you.” He began to cross the street after a man on a motorcycle sped past, and Katrina hurried to follow him.

“But the Dragon Palace is just ahead,” Katrina said. “And I don’t know if-”

“It’s just a bit further,” Bobby said, evenly, and then his face changed expression for the first time as he turned to look back at her and his voice took on a knowing tone. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” Katrina couldn’t help but smile at how persuasive he was, and she liked the idea of venturing to a further eatery for a number of reasons. First, because she had turned fourteen and felt the family rule about not crossing Fulton Street to be quite a “baby” rule for a young adult, and two, it was very interesting and intriguing to have a secret with her new younger brother! A secret was a powerful thing, after all - a speck of grit that trust could form around like a pearl. Furthermore, Katrina didn’t want to be the ‘uncool’ older sister who shook her finger at Bobby and told him they had to obey the Sterling family rules.

“Alright,” she said, brushing her long black hair away from her face and smiling sweetly. “I won’t tell if you won’t!” They had arrived at the corner of Fulton and Main, one of those busy, four-lane traffic crossings that had seemed so scary when she was little. The Dragon Palace was in a plaza to their right, along with a hairdresser and various other boutiques - it looked clean and safe, but that wasn’t where they were going. Her and Bobby were going across the street, past the Petro-Chem gas station and then across another street and beyond.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon. She was starting to lag behind Bobby as they approached the opposite curb, just as the ‘Walk’ sign was blinking ominously, and then, amazingly, it was he who offered Katrina  _ his _ hand to bring her along. “Come on,” Bobby said, tugging her. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not,” she said, automatically, but she was, a little. It was getting dark, there were people, adults, out on the streets in places, and they were entering an unfamiliar part of town. Her heart was beating a little faster with each step, and her stomach was swimming with queer butterflies - she really did feel like she and Bobby were doing something forbidden. It reminded her of the way she had felt earlier, when she had knelt before him and taken communion. She found her feelings at that time to be very hard to parse. It was like Bobby had a magnetism, a strange persuasiveness to him that made her want to impress him, to follow him, to see what he had to show her, and take what he had to give her.

They walked a further block, and Katrina examined the windows of the various shops they were passing, almost gasping at what she saw.  _ Kalaf’s Halal Butcher _ , read one window, and nearby the handwritten words were a series of squiggles and dashes that she guessed were arabic. It was closed, seeming alien and shut to her, and she saw dim shapes in the window that scared her, things hanging from metal hooks.

“Gosh,” she muttered, and Bobby kept leading her on. They passed a man on a cheap, disposable cellphone, a man with fingerless gloves and a beard. He seemed angry. As the two children veered around him he  _ yelled you bitch, you bitch, I’ll fucking kill you!  _ This time Katrina really did gasp. She had so seldom seen adults upset enough to say such things, but she barely had time to process what it meant before Bobby pulled her along. 

They arrived at a depression in the sidewalk that opened into an alley between the taller buildings, and Katrina was about to ask where this restaurant was when Bobby veered into it. This time, she stopped in her tracks, not allowing him to pull her. “No, Bobby!” she gasped, staring down the alley. It was lit by lamps attached to the uneven brick, some of which were broken and flickering. Barely wide enough to fit one car. It was an alley that led around behind the shops and apartments, to the street facing their rear doors, where trucks might go to load and unload into their garages. There were no buildings or streets beyond it, only a chain-link fence and a dark sky hidden by dark, high grasses and trees. “We can’t go in there.”

Bobby looked up at her, still gripping her hand. “It’s just around the corner,” he said. “I promise.”

Katrina’s lip trembled. The alley seemed so  _ dark _ . She saw puddles, broken glass, graffiti. Things she associated with badness and wrongness from the watching of a great many movies - movies her parents had forbidden but that she accessed via a friend’s Netflix account during sleepovers and visits. “Are you sure?” she whispered, her face worried.

Bobby gave her such a look of calm reassurance that it was impossible  _ not _ to be convinced. “Trust me,” he said. And he looked so competent and confident in his open-collared white shirt and his black slacks, that she allowed herself to listen. Again, she felt that queer feeling in her belly, the feeling of butterflies that comes with doing something forbidden - swiping something from a local convenience store, say, or (as she had once done secretly in the garage of her friend Sharon) trying a cigarette for the first time.

Bobby led on. Katrina followed. They made it through the narrow alley to the street behind the shops and buildings, the sun was down, it was growing dark. The street alternated between shadow and golden circles of streetlamp. Katrina looked side to side and saw corrugated doors and steel shutters, places to load and unload, the part of a store that anyone but the owner and his workers would probably never see. The place was dirty, with only one source of light besides the streetlamps, which was-

There was a growl, Katrina wailed and put her hands up to her cheeks, her knees knocking together. Her teen breasts (much, much more than budding at this point, thank you) bounced behind her arms and her pretty eyes went wide, their irises flashing blue-grey in the lamplight. It was a dog. A large, black dog with no collar and a ragged coat, baring its teeth… at her. At them!

“Oh my god, Bobby!” and this small blasphemy slipped out before she had a chance to think. Katrina instinctively shrunk away, and her hand fell from Bobby’s. She did not turn to run, because she knew if she broke eye contact with the beast, the first thing she would hear would be the patter of paws on the cement, growing closer, closer, before those awful-looking teeth tore into her thigh or her ankle. She was backing away, but Bobby wasn’t. The eleven-year-old boy stood brave as anything.

“Bobby!” she cried again, and this time it was a shriek. She was really scared, and behind that fear was something worse - if Bobby was bitten, or injured, she would have to face their parents, and explain how it had happened, how she had allowed her younger brother to wander into an unsafe part of town! “Bobby, it’s rabid! Back away!” She did not know if it was rabid or not… but it was certainly dirty… and looked gaunt and hungry. It was a Rottweiler or something, a very mean-looking dog.

“No, I know him,” Bobby said, and then he crouched down in front of the dog, about fifteen feet away, staring it down. “I know him.”

“You don’t know him!” Katrina hissed. “Bobby, that is a  _ stray _ dog-”

Bobby held up a hand behind himself, in her direction, not taking his eyes off the dog, which was growling and snorting all the more, before it let out a series of harsh barks. Katrina was steeling her courage - she decided was going to walk forward and grab Bobby, collect the smaller boy under her arm if need be. She was fourteen and an early bloomer, more than a head taller and physically more powerful.

“Hey brother,” Bobby said, and he held a finger in front of his face. From her vantage, even partially behind him, Katrina could see Bobby was had a confident grin. He began to speak to the dog, softly and firmly. “You recognize me? Yeah, you recognize me.”

“Bobby…” Katrina said, but her voice came out papery and without force. She watched as Bobby stared the dog down, crouching and getting low to make eye contact. And the crazy thing was, the beast almost seemed to respond to him! The latest growl became a whine on the tail end, and then the growling and barking ceased altogether. The Rottweiler’s tail dropped down and fell between its legs and it began to shudder, making a pathetic, high-pitched noise.

“Bobby,” Katrina said again. “Bobby, how?” She could not take her eyes off what was happening. The dog that had seemed to vicious just moments before was retreating.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “I know him, and he knows me. He lives every day looking for his next meal. Scared, ready to kill or die just to eat. That means he knows me. He’s known me every day of his life.” He beckoned the dog with one finger and all the cur could do was shiver. Then, amazingly, it began to slowly walk forward, whining, head low. It did not  _ want _ to approach, that much was for sure, but Bobby seemed to be giving it no choice. Katrina had never seen anything like it. It was terrible to watch, in some way. Even with the danger passed, the way the dog was shrinking away, shivering, yet still answering Bobby’s call… it was so  _ wrong _ .

“Bobby, stop,” Katrina whispered. Her voice would barely come out. She dog reached Bobby’s outstretched hand, it hung its head submissively almost to the pavement. It shivered again and then began to urinate uncontrollably, spraying the ground and its own gaunt, hungry shanks with fragrant dogpiss. She had never seen such a fearsome thing become so cowed. The mutt that had terrified her had been erased, replaced with something pathetic. A servile, crawling animal that Bobby had completely… completely… 

_ Dominated. _

Katrina’s eyes were drawn to the dog’s penis as it sprayed down, forming a steaming, yellow puddle. She was again struck by the sense she was seeing something utterly forbidden, something nasty, a part of the world only an adult might see. She felt those butterflies again, a tingling. “He pisses to mark his territory, usually,” Bobby said to her, not turning around. “But he knows it’s no good around here. Not while I’m here. He knows.” 

Before Katrina even knew what was happening, Bobby’s hands went to his slacks. It took her a second to register what he was doing; the telltale male movement she’d seen in various movies and even once or twice in person, while camping out, when a male cousin needed to go off the beaten path, turn his face to a tree, and relieve himself. Her eyes went wide.

“Bobby, what are you doing!?” she gasped, but Bobby only gave a light grunt of relief as he took his genitals out of his button-fly. Katrina had only the side-rear angle, but she could still see what her adopted brother was taking out of his pants - an immense, flopping shaft that was unbelievably long, with a pair of fist-sized testicles pouring out behind it.

_ That’s Bobby’s dick and those are his balls _ , Katrina thought, the blood rushing to her face and turning her redder than perhaps she had ever been. Of course she knew that boys had such equipment - she had seen diagrams in textbooks and heard rumors and legends of embarrassing ‘boners’ suffered by classmates and giggled about by her friends. She was fourteen and not stupid, of course she knew what males did with their penises to consummate a marriage when the time came. However, she knew even at a glance that Bobby was hardly normal. He was  _ huge _ \- far bigger than a boy his age had any right to be, and far bigger than the diagrams in her textbooks. She didn’t know how he had hidden such a large member in his pants without anyone noticing!

Bobby’s skin was fair enough that the scant light in the alley reflected off his shaft and revealed that it hung almost to his knee; it was a good eleven inches long, maybe even a foot. The boy began to handle it nonchalantly, gripping it near the tip with one hand and taking aim at the cracked pavement below, where the curs unwilling urine was already glistening. The cavalierness of Bobby’s actions seemed strangely in line with their excursion so far - he had taken her into the alley against her warning, had persuaded her to search for a new, exotic restaurant, had fearlessly approached a mongrel dog when she had wanted to run. Katrina knew this was further even than those boundary breaking steps, and waited for outrage and embarrassment to overtake her. Instead, she found she was curious. What Bobby was doing was so different from anything she’d ever experienced - she couldn’t help but associate it with being worldly and adult.

“Ahhh!” Bobby sighed, and as his older stepsister watched, a foamy, heavy stream of steaming piss began to erupt into the ground from the large tip of his cock, blasting into the existing piss-puddle and making it ripple and splatter, quickly overwhelming it with sheer volume. The urine of the mewling, cringing Rottweiler was being washed away and replaced by Bobby’s, and it was only a matter of seconds before it was his issue that was spreading out, washing into and over cracks in the cement, and twinkling in the semi-darkness. The sun was below the horizon, ringing the piss in a tangerine glint. 

_ He’s pissing so much _ , Katrina thought, and the idea made her feel naughty in a way she couldn’t nail down. Instead of turning away from what should have been a scatological sight, yelling ‘Ewww!’ or similar, she continued to watch. The piss stream was as thick as her finger and seemed to continue on for more than thirty uninterrupted seconds, forming a puddle that followed the cracks in the concrete until it veered off into drainage by the far curb. She could  _ smell it _ \- an acrid, humid, jungle smell that made her head spin. 

_ It’s because his thing is so big _ , Katrina thought, blushing even deeper. She could not help but compare the shuddering, defeated dog - pissing pathetically all over its own mangy shanks - to the power and confidence Bobby was showing. She knew instinctively that this was something she could never tell her mother about, and especially not her father, and that made it all the more enticing. She was in a new place, with a new person, seeing a new thing… and that was making her feel… feel…

“Oh my gosh, Bobby,” she breathed, and bit her bottom lip unconsciously. Her nipples were hard nubs inside her top and seemed suddenly sensitive to the fabric. She felt a tingle in her belly and between her legs. She wrestled with these feelings as Bobby’s stream began to abate at last, the arc drooping first a little and then a lot, then breaking up and dripping straight down. He shook off the last remaining drops, still making eye contact with the dog, and cooly stuffed his penis back into his trousers, requiring several motions to complete the task, before zipping up again.

Bobby wiped off his hands on his slacks, then gestured toward the shrinking, cringing Rottweiler. “Go on. Git!” His motion seemed to release whatever hold he had on the creature, and it ran so fast its paws barely found purchase on the cement, tossing up droplets of piss as it moved, running as far as they could see and then around the corner and into the deepening darkness of night.

Katrina moved to stand beside Bobby, looking down at him in awe. “Bobby, that was… I can’t believe you did that!” Her hip was almost pressing into his side. She put a hand on his shoulder. Suddenly, she very much wanted to touch him, to be connected to him. It seemed… safer.

“I just had to show him who was in charge,” Bobby said, and his eyes seemed distant. “He doesn’t have the will to fight. He’s not that type of dog. He’s a coward. He slinks after people when he thinks they can’t see him. And he only acts tough when he has the advantage.” He smiled slyly, then tossed a glance back over his shoulder, toward the alley they’d emerged from. Katrina turned her head as well, seeing nothing, and then Bobby’s expression changed and he addressed her. “Did you get a look?” he asked, looking up at her. Katrina blushed yet again.

“No.”

For the first time, the boy smiled. “Liar.”

Katrina turned her head and said nothing, but she couldn’t help but smile back a little. “That was weird, Bobby,” she offered, figuring it was what she should say even if she didn’t really feel it. 

“That dog won’t come in my alley again,” Bobby said. “He can smell me now, and he’ll be afraid. That’s all I did.” He paused, then locked eyes with Katrina. “I bet you always wanted to see what it’s like down here at night, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Katrina replied. But she  _ did _ know. Her parents setting the Fulton Street boundary  _ had _ made her curious about venturing beyond.

“Ever seen a boy piss before?” Bobby asked.

“No!” Katrina said, and then giggled at the pure audacity of the question. “No, especially not in public, Bobby-”

“And I bet you’re not afraid of that dog anymore, huh?” Bobby pressed on. His green eyes were twinkling. Katrina shook her head. “A lot happens after sunset, if you’re not afraid,” Bobby said. He took her hand and gestured further down the alley, toward the one source of light that looked almost like a storefront, and Katrina followed. She didn’t know quite what would happen… but she could feel that  _ something _ would.

Her heart was pounding like crazy.

* * *

_ He’s not that type of dog. _

Isaac had never been a smart boy, but he’d had enough cleverness to take an old jacket out of the closet and bundle himself in it as he followed Katrina and Bobby down toward Fulton Street. A jacket his sister wouldn’t recognize if she looked around and saw him trailing at a distance of, say, two city blocks. Isaac wanted to see how they interacted; he intended to take Katrina aside and tell her of his suspicion that their new adopted brother was a snake and a louse and a bad kid, but he couldn’t do so if he attitude toward him was too positive. He walked with his hands in his pockets and his pouting face tucked into an upturned collar. The jacket smelled like mildew, but when combined with a wool cap it made for a good enough disguise.

He’d felt a twinge of fear when Bobby and Katrina decided to cross Fulton Street and hated himself for it. Like Katrina, he knew of the prohibition of doing so without parental accompaniment. The lack of hesitation on Bobby’s part made him despise the little schemer all the more. “Where the heck are you going, jerko?” he’d muttered to himself, debating about whether to follow any further or run back to the house and begin tattling immediately. In the end, the certainty that Bobby would later accuse him of cowardice - ‘oh look, the little baby is afraid to cross the street after dark’ - was what spurred him to follow. That, and his deepening curiosity. When they proceeded two more blocks he’d started to become alarmed, and when they turned into the narrow alley and headed behind the storefronts he’d become  _ very alarmed _ .

It took him a minute to work up the courage to tiptoe down the alley and look around the corner. By that point he was sure he’d lost them… but what he saw instead was something he couldn’t quite understand. Bobby was standing with his dick out… pissing! And he was doing it right in front of his sister, Katrina. And she was watching him do it! And her eyes seemed to be  _ glued _ to his penis… which from Isaac’s vantage was really, really big!

Isaac cringed into his collar until the only thing popping out of it was his mousy brown hair. What he was seeing was _wrong, _and though his barely-teen mind wasn’t seasoned enough to articulate it_, _he felt as if he had stumbled on some dark _ritual_, something that would twist him just in the seeing of it. All the piss spraying out of Bobby’s dick, a dick that was _way_ bigger than his - it seemed like ten times bigger. His pretty older sister standing rapt and blushing, and the final lunatic touch, a mangy, whimpering black dog shuddering in front of Bobby, looking like the mistreated pet of a wicked witch.

He wanted to look away and could not. And then he heard Bobby speak:  _ He doesn’t have the will to fight. He’s not that type of dog. He’s a coward. He slinks after people when he thinks they can’t see him. And he only acts tough when he has the advantage. _

Bobby was not talking about the dog at all. Isaac had never been more certain of anything in his life. And as this certainty drew over him like a shroud, Bobby looked back into the alley, his head turning unerringly to look directly at Isaac and his shadowed, peeking hiding place. He stifled a gasp, pulled back behind the edge of the building and pressed his palms against the brick. He was in a cold sweat. He had been so careful, yet the boy had turned his head directly at him, as if guided by a supernatural sixth sense. 

Isaac clenched his fists and found his palms damp. He swallowed and tried to slow his breathing, too afraid to look back around the corner again. Afraid that if he craned his neck around the damp brick he would come face to face with those green eyes, Bobby’s eyes. Eyes that now seemed frightening. “Go away,” he whispered, so silently only he could hear it. “Just go away.”

* * *

As Bobby and Katrina moved down the alley they approached a small shop - not much bigger than a center-aisle kiosk at the mall. It was lit by lanterns that hung from iron hooks - rather anachronistic for the time. A stained countertop separated the storefront from the street, on this counter was a grooved and battered cutting board with a large cleaver buried in the edge. Overseer of this setup was a man in a turban with a deeply lined and grooved face. Katrina guessed his age to be seventy or more. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes hellishly bloodshot. He wore a simple white  _ thobe  _ beneath a dark crimson shawl. His gaunt body made the garment look like the shroud one would place over a corpse.

There was a sign above; large letters of weathered paint.  _ Al Azif _ , it read, with the same translated in alien-looking crescented and hooked arabic below. Katrina smelled smoke and incense and blood, she heard the sounds of live chickens and goats emanating from the darkness further in.  _ This isn’t the supermarket, _ Katrina thought.  _ This isn’t like any place I’ve ever been. _ Her parents had presided over countless chicken and turkey dinners and not once had she considered the meaning of the butcher’s block and the blade.

The shopkeeper stood impassive and unblinking as they approached, and when they got within five feet, Katrina felt a wave of fear. “Bobby-” she started, but she could not bring herself to say she was scared, not after all he had shown her of overcoming fear.

“It’s alright.” He led her up to the counter, which came up to just above her waist but nearly to his shoulder, and looked at the intimidating arabian man without a trace of apprehension. “Two,” said Bobby, and flashed two fingers. “ _ Maqlooba _ . And make it fresh.” The man nodded and pulled his cleaver from the cutting surface with the crackle of splinters. Katrina looked at the blood-soaked surface and gulped. At the center of the stall, casting light and burning, was a stove with a cookpan, and the proprietor doused this with cooking oil that sizzled and drew steam, tossing in tomato slices, cauliflower, and eggplant.

Katrina looked down at Bobby, putting her hands to her chest and finally managing to exhale. She only realized then how tense and scared she had been. “Gosh,” she said. “I don’t even know… this is so crazy, Bobby. I can’t believe a place like this is like, ten blocks from our house.” But when she looked up into the sky and around to study the surrounding buildings, she couldn’t recognize any landmarks. Upon entering the alley she’d heard the traffic on Main Street. Now it seemed muted, as if they existed in their own little bubble. And the sky was darkening awfully quickly.

“I bet you always wanted to see what it’s like out here, huh?” Bobby said. The robe-wearing man left his cookstove and grabbed a wire-mesh cage with a chicken inside. Katrina watched with growing tension, blushing a little ay Bobby’s question. It was true, she was starting to chafe under the strictness of her father. The restrictions on dress, media consumption, and movement had seemed more and more unreasonable as she saw how other girls her age were living. Certainly this side of the city was something her father didn’t want her to see. 

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But… I guess it isn’t so bad.” Her eyes wandered to that steaming cookpan and the vegetables frying in oil. She smelled spices she wasn’t used to. Once, she had asked her father what Indian food was like and he said that it was like a guaranteed case of diarrhea. Cal Sterling was always putting up walls to stop her from meeting new people, trying new things. With Bobby she felt more  _ adult _ .

She watched as the shopkeeper took the chicken cage over to the countertop, her heart beating faster and faster. She felt almost hypnotized by a combination of horror and dark curiosity. “Bobby, this isn’t-”

“Did you know poultry farms grind up all the little male chicks?” Bobby said, evenly. “Because they don’t lay eggs or get big enough to be broiled. The chicken we ate last night for dinner came from a place like that.”

“Oh,” Katrina said, her eyes glued to the chicken in the cage. “That’s awful.”

“Dad and mom never told you that, huh?”

“No.”

“This is better,” Bobby went on. There was a creak as the silent man opened the wire cage and took then chicken roughly by the neck, barely two feet away from where Katrina was standing. He pressed the bird down against the cutting block, where it struggled with scrabbling feet. Katrina shut her eyes and looked away. But then she felt Bobby’s hand clutching hers.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Bobby said. “This is may be scary, but at least it’s true. It’s how things really are.”

Katrina opened her eyes. She felt as if she wanted to jump out of her own skin. Anticipation, fear, unknown delight, all twinkling in the gleam of that upraised blade. Wild dogs. Scavengers. Scoundrels in booze-soaked alleys, screaming at their girlfriends on phones with cracked screens. Shadows in the wake of tangerine sunsets. Lamp oil. Sesame, saffron, and black pepper. The bleating of a caged lamb. Her little brother, spraying heavy, copious piss over cracked pavement. 

Her belly swam. The place between her legs tingled.

The butcher’s cleaver came down. Blood splattered in a light haze, she felt droplets tickle her face. She cried out in alarm, but when she did, it sounded like pleasure. Her knees trembled and knocked and she leaned over forward, leaving her round, shapely buttocks out-thrust in their tight shorts. 

“Oh my god,” Katrina whispered, bringing a hand to her face. “Oh my god.” She leaned against the counter, knock-kneed and squeezing her thighs together. The counterman clutched the dead chicken brutally with one hand and began to pluck it without caring about her proximity. Blood flowed, feathers puffed into the air. Katrina moaned out and the sound mixed with the hot sizzle on the stove. So many times she had heard of the metaphor - the lion and the lamb, the Lamb of God. Always so sterile and metaphorical and clean. But this was the real fate of the lamb. The world was filled with things like these, and her father’s safe morality seemed more like denial.

Katrina suddenly felt the very urgent need to urinate, and she felt something else between her legs too, a wetness and tingling that had nothing to do with urination. It was one she had felt before, very rarely and always with rather embarrassing stimula, one she had never before acknowledged aloud, even when alone. It was as if the situation - the entire place, from the night sky to the alley to Bobby himself, was casting a spell on her. 

“Bobby, I feel... strange,” she confessed, palms on the countertop. Her face was flushed. 

“You have to go to the bathroom?” Bobby asked. She nodded, her eyes following the arabic man’s weathered hands as he prepared the chicken, cutting it into sections, coating it in oil, throwing it into the sizzling pan. She could feel a feather fluttering on her cheek and knew it was stuck there because it had adhered to one of the stray droplets of blood. Once the chicken was cooking the man moved to the cage where the lamb was tied up. In his hand he brandished a wicked knife.

“Yes,” Katrina said, her face burning with embarrassment. “I do. I do.” That need, the feeling of needing to  _ let go _ and  _ pour out _ and  _ release _ , seemed allegorical to a larger and more complex awakening.

“So go,” Bobby said. “I did it in front of you. You can do it in front of me.”

“I can’t!” she moaned, automatically. “Not out here, with you watching!”

“Who says?” Bobby said, simply, and shrugged. He made it seem so simple; her adopted brother was gatekeeper of a place that didn’t require every hemline, hairstyle and article of clothing to be father-vetted and approved. A place where chicken came not plastic-wrapped from the sterile grocery but hot from the bloodstained block, killed by a foreign man with skin like jerky. A place where all direction and sound seemed to disappear in the dark and all things were permitted.    
  
It was a place she wanted to go. She realized she  _ would _ go.

She brought her hands down to her hips and looped her fingers into the denim of her shorts, unbuttoning them, using her thumbs to hook her powder-blue panties as well and peeling both layers of clothing down. No chill came from the exposure to the night air; she was sizzling hot and her skin flushed. The gentle curve of her pubic mound was dusted with the wispy ghost of thin brown pubic hair. Her pudenda were absolutely engorged, the lips wet and swollen, the throbbing bean of her clit visible. She peeled her shorts down over her ass, letting the round globes of pert flesh bounce as the waistband rolled over and revealed them, and then lowered the clothes to the crook of her knees, bending at the waist and thrusting her rear out lewdly. She didn’t have time to step out of the leg holes of her garments, and leaned against the counter, crouching a little.

“Oh, god… Bobby, what am I doing? This is so wrong!” she moaned, but Bobby said nothing, and only watched with an expression that was impossible to read. Her mouth was open and breathing hard, panting almost, as her young body went into a state of rut. She stared as the shopkeep pulled the lamb to the counter. It was much bigger than the chicken, and watching him toss it onto the countertop and control its head with a firm was an order of magnitude more brutal. And the sound it made - the desperate bleating - seemed to echo. It almost sounded like a human. Katrina couldn’t hear any traffic coming from main street. She could not see any clouds or stars. The sky was dark with a blue-orange hue near the horizon. She felt disoriented. Disoriented, and… and…

She felt Bobby’s hand slide between the counter and her belly, pressing on it, making her insides feel hot and warm. She needed  _ release _ .

She cried out and tilted forward. The arabic man drew the knife across the lamb’s main artery. Blood flew through the air, splattering his white  _ thobe _ , but the greatest volume of crimson sprayed directly into Katrina’s face. Her pussy trembled and clenched with a sensation that was beyond anything she had ever felt, she couldn’t comprehend it. She reached down to spread herself, feeling the slick heat of her own folds, and spraying, splattering starburst explosion of piss erupted from her slit. It showered down to the alley pavement, pooling beneath her, partially soaking her panties despite her efforts to lower them. 

Her gasping, crimson-soaked face was afire with the knowledge that she was pissing in public, taking a big, nasty unencumbered piss out in the open, right in front of her little brother! And, it felt good! It was a valve, loosened at last! More than that, there was a feeling beyond pissing that she just knew  _ had _ to be an orgasm - the first of her nascent sex life. She was cumming her brains out, her graceful, sinfully voluptuous barely-teen body flexing and undulating against the counter as spurt after spurt of arterial blood erupted into her features, masking her in crimson, making her taste copper. The cut throat of the lamb was pumping out all over her face and it felt so  _ nasty _ and  _ good _ !    
  
Katrina thrust out her buttocks even more, reaching behind herself to spread them, cupping them, pulling them apart so the pink crescent of her pussy was as exposed as possible, and the shower of piss turned into a tight rope of golden, glistening waste. She arched her back and pissed down and behind her, splattering the pavement so hard it was audible, riding out her orgasm as she voided her bladder, pressing her sensitive breasts into the countertop, smearing her halter in blood and chicken feathers. Her tiny, pink, quivering pee-hole was straining to deliver such a heavy outflow of piss - it was all so primal, she couldn’t help but let out a cry as she spread herself and let her little brother see every detail. Each time a spurt of blood hit her face, it made her pussy clench, another hose-blast of piss spray out of her folds, and another trembling shockwave of pleasure rip through her ripe cunt.

She was not aware of anything for several moments as the feeling subsided. The blood of the lamb became a flow rather than a burst. She laid her cheek on the countertop and breathed hard, dimly aware that the ‘chef’ was now moving on to the task of butchering and preparing it for their supper. “Oh god, Bobby,” she gasped, weakly. She blinked, twice, and then raised bolt upright from the counter, this time with more alarm. “Oh! What did I do!?” she said. She brought a hand to her face and it came back streaked with blood. The scent was in her nose, all over her body.

“Don’t worry,” Bobby said, looking up at Katrina as he stood at the counter alongside her. He shrugged and smiled confidently. “It can’t hurt you. The blood of a lamb is just the blood of a lamb. It only has power if you give it power.”

Katrina’s voice was rising and speeding up. “But I’m  _ covered _ in blood and my clothes are ruined… and I did… I did  _ that _ in front of you-

Bobby took her hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. His flat retort was punctuated by the sizzle of fresh meat being thrown into the cookpan by the mute, turban-wearing proprietor.

Katrina wrapped her arms around herself. “I feel so… dirty,” she said. Her eyes were lost in thought, but the volume in her voice had dropped, and the tone suggested she was viewing that adjective, dirty, in a different light than she ever had before. Dirty streets, dirty movies, dirty clothes, dirty foreigners and their dirty ideas. All things her parents had warned her away from in one way or another. 

“But you liked it, didn’t you?” Bobby asked. She squeezed his hand back. Her shorts and panties were still around her knees; the night air was mild and she could feel her own wetness… and remember all the hot piss she had spread herself to void, in great big bursts like an  _ animal _ . Letting her brother watch, showing him every bit of herself as she moaned and rutted and bathed in blood-

“Yes.”

“And did you like watching me when I did it?”

“Yes,” she said again. “You’re… you’re really big, Bobby.” Her face, had it not been crimson red from lamb’s blood, would have grown redder.

“That’s important to you.” It was barely a question.

“Yes,” she said. In the moment, words seemed like weak equivocation compared to a physical measurement. Bobby’s cock impressed her in a way she could barely articulate. “You’re really big, and… you pissed a lot, too.”

“You like that?” Bobby asked.

“Y-yes.” She was not sure of the answer until it was halfway out of her mouth. At first it did not make sense. But then it made  _ perfect _ sense. Katrina nibbled her lip and realized that her nipples were poking against the cotton of her halter top, tenting it up with how turgid they were. There was a clatter on the counter as two steaming plates of food were placed before them; the heady scent of blood was replaced in Katrina’s nose by the  _ best _ smell she had ever experienced, a strong aroma of succulent lamb, chicken, rice, vegetables and spices. The turban-wearing chef did not make eye contact, and indeed, had not done so at any point in their visit. Her blood-soaked face and chest did not seem to disturb him in the least.

“ _ Maqlooba _ ,” Bobby said again. The plates were simple black metal, each with a fork included. “This is the good stuff.” He picked up his utensil and began to eat, tearing into the meat hungrily. Katrina watched him eat as if in a trance. He was so handsome for his age; his teeth were blinding white and the point of his canines seemed a little exaggerated as she tore into a piece of hot strip of seasoned lamb.

_ That was a living thing like five minutes ago _ , Katrina marveled.  _ And he’s devouring it. Consuming it because that’s what he wants to do. He does only what he wants. That’s… that’s what *I* want! _

Beside both of their plates had been placed a dish of water and a hot hand towel; Katrina took hers and wiped her face and chest, still watching Bobby in that trance-like fashion. The chef retreated to the rear of the kiosk-like area to sit and smoke hookah in shadow, she barely noticed him. It was as if the man was but a prop in Bobby’s performance; the night itself with its shroud of secrecy seemed to obey Bobby’s command. She reached into her plate with her hand, grasped a piece of lamb and brought it to her mouth, tearing off a chunk and swallowing it down. Her hair was wild and spilling down over her shoulders, a thin trail of the remaining blood was mixing with the glisten of sweat on the swell of her chest. Her blue-grey eyes glistened.

It was the best thing she had ever tasted in her life. And Bobby… Bobby was-

“We should say grace,” Bobby said, suddenly. “Our father would want that, don’t you think?” Katrina felt a sudden revulsion toward the idea, those droning recitations of a rote prayer at every meal seemed like performative nonsense from another dimension. She did not want to think about them, in the feral night. She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to.”

“You should,” Bobby insisted. “And… there’s something else you can do at the same time.” He leaned in to whisper into her ear, and as his mouth moved her face reddened and filled with nervousness that was not refusal. After Bobby pulled away, Katrina lifted her plate and set it down on the ground next to the restaurant counter, the cracked and piss-splattered pavement, getting down on her knees to do so. Her eyes were filled with the hypnosis of the evening, a series of events that had enchanted her impressionable mind with the promise of so much freedom, so many new sensations.

She spread her thighs as she knelt. Bobby turned toward her and she reached out for the fly of his pants, unbuttoning it as he himself had done earlier. She had an intimate view as his size and length was revealed. Pale, smooth, fading to pink at the end, and nearly as thick as her arm and reaching knuckle to elbow. She wrapped a hand around him and, even though she had never stroked a dick in her life, took to the task with cautious but uncanny skill.

“Bless us, oh Lord,” Bobby prompted, softly.

“Bless us, oh Lord,” Katrina breathed, milking his thick boymeat toward her face. She lifted her plate of  _ maqlooba _ with her opposite hand until it was centered just beneath his cockhead. “For these, thy gifts, which I am about to receive. From thy bounty.” Her hand went far down his shaft to feel those big, smooth balls - so big, so perfectly egg-shaped, so heavy. She clutched and kneaded them, her heart beating even faster at the sensation of slickness and fullness. “From thy bounty,” she repeated, swallowing with a salivating mouth. She drew her hand up Bobby’s shaft again and there was a wet,  _ splurt _ sound as a thick rope of white goo poured from the nickel-sized pisshole on his cocktip and trailed all over her food, decorating it. A nasty scent mixed with the smell of food, but Katrina found she didn’t hate it, or hate what she was seeing. The stuff coming from Bobby’s dick was so thick and there was so much, even though she had only stroked him a little.

“Through Christ our Lord, amen,” she whispered, her eyes wide and unblinking, taking in every detail. She saw Bobby’s balls twitch and then another huge dollop of chunky white spew poured onto her food, mixing with the meat and vegetables and oil. 

That was how it was with them, for five minutes. Katrina milked, and prayed, and watched with rapt attention as spurt after spurt after nasty spurt of that chunky cream pumped out over her food. She gasped and marveled about what a pair of big, churning cum factories her little brother had, he just kept spurting out semen seemingly without end, until her entire plate of savory food was completely buried in it. She just  _ knew _ from looking at the thick wads of cum that they would get stuck in her throat if she tried to swallow them; she would need to chew them first. 

When it was done, she made the sign of the cross and put her plate on the ground, braced her palms upon the rough pavement, and, with her little brother’s huge penis swinging and brushing against her hair, slurped and gobbled her food like a dog. Her eyes were blank with a hunger and need to transgress. She did not care what she did, as long as it was a rebellion against the way things had been. 

They ate together, her standing with a fork, Katrina on all fours with her back arched, her butt outthrust to make her shorts cling to their shape, her knees splayed. 

She did not stop until her plate was licked clean.

* * *

Back home, Vanessa was sitting in Bobby’s room with an expression of vexation. She had retreated there unerringly, not meaning to but simply wanting to leave the living room after a shouting match with Cal. She had come to her husband to tell him that Isaac seemed shaken by the events at the church, and to counsel with him on what seemed to be a deteriorating relationship between the biological son and the adopted one. 

To her dismay, Cal had first been dismissive, then obstinate. It was clear that after the disaster at the Church of the Divine Pentecost, he was in no mood to hear of further troubles, child-related or otherwise. Rather, he had his laptop open, and seemed to be composing a new sermon. He had reacted negatively to all of her attempts to start conversation, and eventually they had come to shouting.

“You can write your sermon later!” Vanessa had objected, trying to draw his attention away from that maddening screen that had dominated so many of his hours throughout their marriage. “Cal, after what happened, don’t you think the children need-”

He had first told her the flock at CDC were  _ also _ his children, an infuriating response. They, he explained, would need his spiritual guidance sooner rather than later. He had an opportunity to use the unfortunate death of Miss Carlyle as a ‘teaching moment’. The people would be vulnerable and looking for answers. Furthermore, he had only one day to prepare a suitable spiritual testimony. Doing a proper job with it, he concluded, would insure that levels of support for the church would only grow.

Vanessa had always been fine with going along with Cal’s explanations for most things, but this time she had grown angry, because it seemed like he was using on  _ her _ the same wiles and silver-tongued methods he used on the flock. She became dimly aware that perhaps he had been doing this for years, and her comfort in their large house with all the amenities of upper-class life had encouraged her not to rock the boat.

She didn’t know why she brought up Bobby then; it seemed like the thing most likely to get Cal’s attention.

“Your son needs you,” she insisted. “You should talk to Bobby when he and Katrina return. He was right there with the old woman when she passed. He must be terrified.” She realized as soon as the words were out of her mouth that she didn’t believe them herself - Bobby seemed like the most unflappable young boy in the world, and if anyone could deal with an unexpected death, it would be him - but she found she wanted to challenge Cal anyway. The way he was typing away at that laptop, coming up with ploys, tropes and gambits to lead the masses to the collection plate… Miss Carlyle’s death made it all seem so phony.

She had expected to rankle him, but his response was even stronger. Cal slapped the laptop shut and thrust it forward onto the coffee table, rising from the couch. He looked at her with such an expression of frustration and anger that she was momentarily scared. “Don’t talk to me about that boy,” Cal grunted, dismissively. “What he did up there - it made a bad situation worse.” He looked down at the floor and furrowed his brow. “He shouldn’t have been up there to begin with. We had a good thing going, honey - a really tight-knit thing, it was running like a machine. It should have been Isaac up there.”

“Cal!” Vanessa had barked, hands on hips. “Bobby didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I don’t want to discuss it,” Cal replied, and his anger had made his voice clipping and mean. “Bobby is going to stay in the back from now on, and that’s final.” He looked down, almost pouting. “I should never have let you convince me to put him out front to make trouble.”

“He’s an eleven year old boy, Cal! What trouble could he make!?”

“I don’t  _ care _ , Vanessa!” he roared. “You didn’t see the look on his face. When she was slipping away, that old bat-”

“Old bat?!”

“He didn’t care. And he doesn’t care about any of it,” Cal sneered, throwing up his hands.

_ You’re the one who doesn’t care, Cal, _ Vanessa almost said, but didn’t.  _ And we both know it. We both know what we’re doing with CDC. _ But to say that would be to expose something she had been complicit in for years, and she knew it. She had always seen it as harmless.

“You sound deranged, Cal,” Vanessa scolded. “Paranoid about your own son!”

Cal’s brow darkened. The fight was either about to explode into an all-out screaming match, or one of them would have to remove themselves. She saw him go back into himself, making an effort to calm down and disengage. “Get out, Vanessa,” he said, his voice back down to calm. He sat back down on the couch and re-opened his laptop. “This discussion is over.”

She’d been already gone. Stomping off down the hall, along the doors that led to the laundry room, turning into the first one that was open… which happened to be Bobbys. She’d shut the door behind her, sat down on his bed with a thump, removed her earrings as she huffed and clenched her fists and glowered at the wall… and there she found herself still.

Vanessa’s eyes turned to the light wood of the bedside table. She knew what the bottom drawer contained- that stack of Bobby’s drawings that she had found so frightening and intriguing. She shifted over on the bed in her skirt and her hose and her shoes, leaning forward until her large, round breasts hung like boulders in the blouse, and opened the drawer. The drawings were in the same place he had left them before. Unable to resist doing so, she thumbed through them again, feeling heat flush in her face as she arrived at the ones that had struck her as inappropriate and possibly blasphemous - the ones she hadn’t wanted to tell Cal about since he might react, well… similarly to how he had just reacted.

She looked at them again, one after another, until she arrived at once she hadn’t seen before. It was new - so new there were pencil and eraser shavings still clinging to the page. Vanessa’s eyes went wide behind her hot-mom spectacles, and then she gasped and then shut them tight.

The new drawing depicted a sacrifice. It was a full half-minute before she could open her eyes and look upon the picture. Part of her wanted to crumple it and throw it out, or shuffle it back to the bottom of the pile and never look at it again. But she could not resist. In it, a lamb with sinister baphomet horns was put under the knife by a grizzled, Moorish-looking butcher. Beneath the act, receiving the flow of blood on her body, was a naked girl. The figures were flat and drawn in an old style, like a stained-glass window but without color. To the side, a washer woman was soaking clothing in a tub, looking on, and her face was unmistakable again. Prominent cheekbones, glasses, full lips. The washer-woman  _ looked _ like her.

And the young girl being splashed with the blood of the lamb, well she looked like-

“Oh my god,” Vanessa whispered. There was an inscription at the bottom of the page, painstakingly written by Bobby:

> _ 2 Samuel 12:1-4 _
> 
> _ The poor woman had nothing except one little ewe lamb which she bought and nourished; And it grew up together with her and her children. It would eat of her bread and drink of her cup and lie in her bosom, And was like a son to her. _

Her eyes moved back to the lamb with those strange, sinister baphomet horns. Though it was being slaughtered, throat cut, it looked alert and intensely outward at the viewer, and seemed to be looking directly at her. A black lamb, utterly unbothered by something as trivial as a slit throat. Bathing a girl in its blood, while a washer woman stood by and watched, a washer woman with  _ her _ face. A washer woman who appeared to be fine with the blasphemy before her, perhaps even enjoying it!

Washer woman. Laundry. She looked over at Bobby’s laundry hamper, on the other side of the bed. She felt a tingling in her belly as rolled on the coverlet and moved to examine it. It was half full… and right at the top of the pile were a pair of boxer-brief underwear, in black. She lowered her hands into the basket and grabbed them, and groaned as she found the underwear damp and heavy. Pulling them up and out, it was clear they were absolutely loaded with  _ semen _ . The crotch was actually bulging downward from all the piled up, backed up sperm hanging in the middle, weighing it down like a hammock.

_ It grew up together with her and her children. It would eat her bread and drink of her cup. _

Vanessa felt a tremor between her legs. She had already seen once how much semen her young adopted son could produce. The idea of him laying in bed, drawing her, maybe thinking of her, stroking himself through the underwear that were clinging to his thin young body until he gasped out and the sounds started coming, those heavy spurting, spraying, liquid sounds like the last bit of dish soap being squeezed from a bottle, while her son filled up his underwear until they were caked with it, shot after shot,  _ massive load _ after  _ massive load _ -

“So much!” she whispered, and without knowing precisely what had come over her, she brought the sperm-slathered underwear to her face and pressedt them directly over her nose and mouth, breathing in deeply as she muffled herself and flopped back on the mattress, unclasping her skirt and spreading her knees, then moving a hand up to grasp one of her large, sensitive nipples and tweak it.

Vanessa’s nose immediately filled with an overwhelming smell of semen, the strongest she had ever encountered. She inhaled and snorted and moaned and felt that accumulation of thick semen actually smear her lips and clog her nostrils. The scent of thick, virile kid cum poured into her brain, and she instinctively knew that if Bobby were to fuck a woman, even at his young age, she would get pregnant instantly. Her adopted son’s cum was  _ so thick _ and it smelled  _ so strong _ ! Without thinking her hand moved to slip under her pantyhose and panties, stroking and fingering there; she found herself unbelievably responsive, more responsive than she’d been with Cal in all their tears of marriage. She dug into her self with first two fingers, then three, rubbing herself roughly and mauling her clit with a thumb. She wore Bobby’s underwear like a mask, breathing in his essence, and then she actually stuffed the underwear into her mouth a little, living the taste of that clumpy, thick sperm. She moaned out orgasmically around the makeshift muffle, letting firecracker climaxes rattle her as her pelvis pushed up and out and her body posted off of the mattress.

“Ouunnnngh!” she moaned, her eyes crossing and rolling behind her hot MILF spectacles. She slapped and squeezed and kneaded her breasts, breathing sparsely with undies stuffed into her mouth, digging desperately at her pussy and drawing out orgasm after orgasm. She had felt some of these sensations and compulsions the  _ first _ time, when she had discovered Bobby’s bedspread covered in semen. But this was ten times stronger, and she couldn’t resist doing more!

She both feared and craved the dark strangeness that seemed to linger around Bobby. Not like Cal. Cal, or Isaac, who both seemed to distrust the boy. But Bobby was good, Bobby was strong and brave and had a lot to admire, a lot to offer! They would be  _ made _ to come around, she decided. They would  _ have _ to accept Bobby, just as she accepted him. Bobby was a special boy… and she didn’t want to give up these feelings, these feelings that fulfilled both her need to nurture and to feel pleasure herself.

There was no light coming in through the window as she fingered herself and moaned. The sun had set. She coaxed herself to one orgasm, two, three. She rubbed Bobby’s underwear on her face, kneaded them roughly against her breasts, stuffed them down the front of her panties so her son’s issue would slather her folds with an even greater wetness. The orgasms were guilty, effortless, and without guile.

It was a half hour before she gathered herself and emerged, flustered and stained, for a change of clothes. Isaac, looking troubled, and Cal, looking peevish, were hanging around the living room and waiting for dinner. Cal his glowing expression still hardened from their argument, asked if Bobby and Katrina, who had gone for takeout, shouldn’t be back already. He did so only grudgingly, as if he didn’t care to ask about Bobby at all.

“I’m sure they’re fine, Cal,” Vanessa said, thinking about the drawing, and the black lamb, and the taste and smell of her son’s semen. “I’m sure they’re just fine.”


	3. The Binding Of Isaac

“Rich, thanks for meeting me,” Cal Sterling said, his voice both businesslike and familiar. He was wearing an indigo suit with a white button-up and mustard-yellow tie; a tie-pin in the shape of the One True Cross was attached at the midpoint. His pocket square was fastidiously folded and his hair recently barbered. He looked every bit the big-money pastor that he fancied himself, and for the job at hand, this was the impression he wanted to make.

The man he was greeting, Rich Turlis, was every bit as unpretentious and egg-shaped as Cal was imposing. He shook Cal’s extended hand. He was bald, with thinning hair around the sides and back of his head. His pork-chop jowls sloped down toward a neck that wasn’t really there; his polo shirt was not mustard yellow, but rather featured a mustard stain. A belt strained to keep his round midsection contained in his khakis. Small town, small-time. And there was a look of nervousness about him, too - Cal picked up on that right away. He liked to think they were friendly - Rich had attended services at the Church of the Divine Pentecost for years - but something was irking the short, round man now.

“Sure,” Rich said. “Anytime, Cal. You know, me and Julia… we’re always happy to help out if we can.” Rich was holding a manila folder in his chubby fingers. He worked in child outreach, as did his equally egg-shaped wife. It was they who had recommended the adoption agency that Cal and Vanessa had used to adopt Bobby. He certainly had been gregarious enough then, but now he seemed hesitant, and his fingers played with the folder as if he felt uncomfortable holding it.

“Is that it?” Cal asked, and gestured toward the folder. They were in Rich’s office, a cluttered space with forms and files stacked high, a desk with a yellowing computer that seemed to be from the stone age, a coffee mug, and pictures of egg-shaped Rich, Julia the egg-shaped wife, and their soon-to-be-egg shaped kids, who were a mixture of biological and adopted, judging from their skin colors. One thing Cal knew, if they ate Julia’s cooking - he often brought food to the Church bake sales and luncheons, most of it incredibly fried - then they would look like their parents soon enough.

He sat down in front of Rich’s desk and raised his eyebrows as Rich looked down and seemed troubled. “Well?” Cal prompted. He was already losing his patience with the entire situation. 

“Yeah,” Rich said, finally, sitting down across from him. “Yeah, this is the file, Cal. But I gotta tell you-”

“What? Is there a problem?”

“These records were sealed. You know, he’s a juvenile,” Rich said, clutching the folder in the crook of his arm. “I shouldn’t even have these, technically. And if Julia knew I was doing this-”

Cal flashed a gregarious smile. “It would trouble her? Rich, what could be more Christian than helping a father to understand his son? Bobby is having a difficult time adjusting, and his mother and I, we think it stems from what happened in his past. We just want to understand it.” He turned on as much pastoral charm as he had. “You know, Vanessa and I need to come your way for some of that fine cooking. It’s been two long since our families were together. You can tell her I said so. It’s like I said in my sermon last week.”

Rich looked even more awkward for a moment, and then took a breath and spoke in a quiet southern drawl. “Well Cal, I got to tell you, Julia and I, we haven’t attended services the last couple of weeks. What happened to that old woman, it’s got Julia real shook up.”

Cal controlled his reaction, but with real difficulty. After several weeks of doing damage control, he was completely sick and tired of hearing about the death of Miss Carlyle. Attendance and donations had both dropped more than twenty percent, and a local reporter was sniffing around, trying to spin the whole thing as manipulative and callous on his part. He was in crisis mode just trying to reassure his flock - and being reminded of how devastating a blow her gruesome death had been was not improving his mood. “Well now, Rich, you know you’re missed by more than just the congregation. Your absence is felt by God,” Cal managed.

“That old woman,” Rich lamented, fiddling with the folder. “I keep seein’ her, Cal. She came and gave so much to the offering plate, and to die like that… it’s an ugly thing.” He shook his head, and pushed the thought away from him, which was just fine with Cal. In fact, he decided to take a new approach, if the old biddy’s heart attack was bothering good ol’ Rich Turlis so much.  _ Maybe she ate too much of your fat wife’s artery-clogging fried chicken _ , Cal thought sourly.

“It was especially tough on Bobby, to see that,” Cal lied. He was already convinced that Bobby could see the earth yielding up it’s dead for the Rapture and not even blink. “And Vanessa and I… you know, we’re looking for a new way to get him to open up. We think maybe it’s similar to some trauma from his past, but without knowing the details, we can’t get him to open up.”

Rich glanced down at the folder, then back up to Cal. Cal saw his face change, and he knew he had him. Sad-sack Rich Turlis had a soft heart, he couldn’t deny a man of god his chance to connect with his son, even if it wasn’t strictly legal to unseal the files of a juvenile. “Well, you know, Cal, there was a criminal proceeding here. And, I mean… there’s courthouse stuff in this folder. Depositions and all. I could get in real trouble.”

Cal was getting even more impatient, but he realized he was close to his goal, and kept up the charm. “Sure. I understand, Rich. And the last thing I would want is to put you in a jackpot. But there are the laws of God and the laws of man. And the law of God says, help thy neighbor.” Cal actually often sermonized about how the hippie, help-everyone Jesus was actually a misinterpretation of the bible, but in this spot he judged that a religious call to action was what Rich Turlis wanted to hear. 

There was a moment of silence, and Rich dropped the folder flat on the table. “I can’t give you the file.”

Cal’s eyes narrowed into a frown. “But-”

“It can’t leave this office,” Rich clarified, looking grave. “And you can’t read it. But… I’ve seen it. And if I was to talk about what’s in it, and you were to overhear, well - not nothing can be done about a thing like that.”

Cal leaned back in his chair. “That’s right,” he said. “I could just be talking to myself, asking questions. And maybe you could be giving answers.” 

Rich gave him the nod, and then his face seemed to weaken. “Bobby is really having trouble, huh?”

Cal had trouble meeting Rich’s gaze, afraid if he did, the man would see through the lie that followed. “Yes, he… well, he’s acting out.”   
  
“Oh, dear.”

“There was a fight. A rather serious one.”

“I see.” Rich’s face was sympathetic.

Cal said no more. He knew he had him. He would let Rich Turlis fill in the blanks, and offer his condolences. And then he would learn all he needed to know.

* * *

For the last eight weeks, Vanessa had made a ritual of drinking Bobby’s semen each day. 

It had started as an irregular compulsion when she changed the linens on his bed, scooping up those thick, lumpy piles of sperm and licking the heavy issue off of her hand, rubbing it on her tits, wanting to feel saturated by it, a strange form of intimacy as she explored Bobby’s drawings and the ejaculations he left behind, seemingly for her to discover. Eventually she had entered the room to replace the linens with Bobby still laying on his bed, playing with a video game handheld or doing sketches.

At this point Vanessa had originally just asked Bobby to move and changed the linens, which he was happy enough to do. But as she left without scooping all of that thick, jelly-like semen into her mouth - when Bobby was in the room, there was none on the sheets to be found - she’d felt such an aching emptiness inside her that it practically screamed out. She’d locked herself in the master bedroom and masturbated furiously on such occasions - it was the only thing that helped.

The next time Vanessa entered the room to make the bed and tidy up, Bobby was there again, laying on his back, shirtless and reading a book -  _ Lord of the Flies _ , by William Golding - and wearing a pair of school gym shorts bunched up around his hips, showing off the pale-complexioned skin there in its youthful smoothness. 

Her son’s fat, long penis had been hanging out of one of the leg holes. Bobby never looked away from his book, and Vanessa had gone about her business, occasionally stealing glances at the way that long, flopping cock was long enough to reach all the way down the leg of his shorts and then curve and dip down to the mattress. They never exchanged a word or even a glance as she gathered his laundry and picked up his wastebasket (pencil shavings, apple cores, crumpled up, discarded half-finished drawings). 

She looked away to pick up the trash bag and tie it… and when she looked back, she saw it. That big, fat cockhead, pulsing. The pisshole opening and dilating to disgorge looping, heavy strands of the thickest, gooiest cum Vanessa had ever seen. It wasn’t spurting out onto the comforter, it was  _ piling _ on it in chunky, gelatinous ropes. There was a smell in the air like semen and sulphur, and she was the first one to speak in the forbidden silence of the bedroom. “Oh god, Bobby…”

The wastebasket was forgotten. She walked to the bed as if in a trance and crawled onto it, the her large, heavy breasts hanging down like cow udders and stretching her blouse, giving the boy a view of her matronly titflesh if he wanted it - but Bobby made no move, no indication that he was paying attention to her at all. She’d crawled further forward at that point, back arched, heart pounding, like a cat approaching a dinner dish. One inhale filled her nostrils with the scent of her son’s impossibly thick, virile semen - sperm that was still looping out of his pisshole in irregular, chunky bursts that couldn’t fly and splatter, they were so heavy.

Wordlessly and with no acknowledgement from either of them, she leaned forward, her beautiful dark hair brushing his bare thigh up to the hemline of his shorts, and opened her mouth, placing it on the tip of his penis. Not as a seducer attending to her target, but more like a pet at her feeding tube. Her matronly body was blazing with heat, a need to be nourished by him.

That day, on the mattress, her adopted son had fed her until her belly was full. In the days to follow it was repeated, and it became their silent ritual. Sometimes she would caress his balls, occasionally he would be topless or bottomless and she would run her long, agile tongue over the flawlessly-complextioned paleness of his flesh before attending to her part in their unspoken pact. She was enchanted by the fact that his pre-teen penis was so heavy and virile that she could drink her fill from it, and each day, Vanessa swallowed semen until she felt saturated with it. Then, she would gently caress Bobby and say goodbye, her inner thighs absolutely soaked with her own wetness. Then, she would proceed up to her room to masturbate away from Cal’s prying eyes, and the orgasms were so strong they were almost frightening.

Many times, she squirted so powerfully that she splattered the nightstand where the pictures of she, Cal, and the family were propped with dull, saccharine sentiment. The fantasies she explored were different than any she’d ever had before, different than the simple fantasies she’d entertained before Bobby’s arrival. She saw orgies where Bobby stalked among the rutting figures with the keen eye of a predator, his long, thick penis banging against his smooth thighs, slender baphomet horns sprouting from his head. She saw a corrupted and perverse parody of the traditions of the church, a libertine mass held before a pulpit and pentacle, with naked masses falling on each other, a gaggle of bountiful young women prostrate before her son, and he ready for them with a massive erection.

The ritual - going to Bobby’s room, attending to him, and then retreating to her own to masturbate with her thighs spread and her nipples throbbing as she pawed at her breasts and caused them to jiggle - had become an increasingly large part of Vanessa’s day. What took fifteen minutes originally, the swallowing of semen from his sheets, was now taking more than an hour. She welcomed it as an escape from Cal, who had grown increasingly ill-tempered and brooding with the difficulties of the CDP, and even from Isaac, whose jealousy and hatred for Bobby she now felt, despite their blood connection, as a sort of sacrilege all its own.

_ This time _ , when Vanessa approached the door to Bobby’s room and raised her hand to knock briefly and enter, she heard sounds from within. Sounds that caused her to blush and look down with a sense of guilt and recognition. Regular, soft, glottal noises. Flesh being enveloped and consumed by a hungry mouth.

It was Katrina, she knew. Taking care of Bobby. 

Vanessa had both known, and not known. Over the previous weeks and months, like ships passing in the night, they had made regular visits to his room, occasionally glimpsing each other going in and out, but never explicitly speaking about what they were doing. They both shared the same sense - that Bobby was an extraordinary young man who needed extra love and attention. As Cal and Isaac grew apart from the newest member of the Sterling family, they both grew more attached.

Vanessa had noticed a change in Katrina and for good reason. She  _ had _ changed, perhaps more than any of them. In the two months since her trip to the back alleys with Bobby, she started spending more and more time with him. They were always talking, laughing together, as thick as thieves, and the results were clear. Previously very reserved for her age, and almost childlike in her outlook and attitude, Katrina was showing a wilder, more adventurous side. This was first reflected in the clothing she wore and the way she did her hair. Gone were the simple, straight hairstyles (with prim ponytails on occasion) and the dowdy skirts. Recently, she had taken to doing her hair in the long bohemian style of 60’s and 70’s, with a thin, organic looking leather twist headband. It was  _ wild _ . 

_ She _ was wild. It was as if something primal had been awakened inside her by Bobby. Cal said she looked like a ‘flower child’ and expressed concern that her dressing habits were being influenced by watching ‘old movies’ with her friends. But he was missing the true genesis of her transformation. Katrina with her wild hair and her flowery vine-like headbands wasn’t imitating the spirit of the sixties. Rather, she looked like a woman who lived in nature. A woman who knew how to catch a bat and throw the entrails into a pan with some cat teeth and read the coming weather.

A witch. Not the warty-nosed halloween kind, either. But the sensual, flowing, servant of the earth. The sort who would hold the darkest congress with animals and the devil. The sort who would have been burned in Salem.

Vanessa opened the door and her heart thudded with the obscenity of what she saw. Vanessa was flat on her back on Bobby’s bed, legs and arms splayed, totally without clothing. The full beauty of her explosive teen body was on display and couldn’t be denied. Her breasts were pert, shapely orbs that hung only slightly down the sides of her chest. Her belly was smooth and taut, the soft crescent of her blushing pubic mound dusted with thin hair. Only her face couldn’t be seen, because Bobby was mounted on her face, very slowly making his hips rise and fall. Katrina’s features were thus completely obscured by Bobby’s cute, round rear end, his heavy balls mashing against her chin and neck, his legs bent at the knee on either side. His anus, pink and flawless between his buttocks, was shamelessly displayed.

“Glllnnncch!” Katrina gurgled, as Bobby pressed his pelvis into her face. His cock was totally buried down her throat, Vanessa could see her daughter’s neck bulging around the girth. Katrina’s pelvis twitched and honeyed wetness drizzled from her slit. A bubbling mix of semen and throat slime slid down one cheek. Bobby kept up the same rhythmic stroking, and each slow and grinding thrust elicited the same result.

_ My eleven-year-old… adopted on… is face-fucking my daughter… with his huge penis _ , Vanessa thought. Her midsection turned to liquid and she felt a forbidden heat inside her beyond anything she’d felt yet. What she was looking at was an obscenity… a perversion of mating, not procreative sex in the religiously-ordained way but rather a lewd, nasty throat-fuck. Bobby was using Katrina’s throat as a cum toilet… nothing but a sleeve to dump his sperm into… and Katrina seemed to be loving every second of it. Her wild hair was fanned out on the mattress on each side of her obscured face, and the fact that her expression could not be seen - only Bobby’s smooth, young ass - made it all the more depraved.

Vanessa made sure the door was shut securely behind her and walked toward the foot of the bed as if in a trance, pulling off her blouse and bra as she approached. Her heavy breasts, laden with size befitting her motherly age and instincts, swung free and bounced. Her skirt was next, and her heels, pushed off by her painted toes. She knew there was little danger of Cal coming to Bobby’s room; the way the two of them were at odds. What happened would be a secret known only to the three of them.

She knee-walked onto the mattress and lifted one leg over her daughter’s midsection, straddling Katrina’s body and lowering her face down between the cheeks of Bobby’s ass. She could see every detail of his smooth ballsack pouring over Katrina’s chin, holding those two  _ huge _ boy-nuts that were just  _ churning _ with semen. Bobby pressed his hips down steadily again. Katrina gurgled again and another gout of thick throat-cream poured down her cheeks. Vanessa moaned and exhaled at the pure  _ domination _ of it. She felt a seed of unseemly pride at the way Bobby was so effortlessly alluring to both her and Katrina. Even though she wasn’t his biological mother, something inside her wanted to nurture and cultivate that instinct.

She also found Bobby to be physically perfect. That smooth, round ass… parted for her to see his pink asshole as he dipped his hips onto Katrina’s face… she couldn’t help but want to  _ service _ it. She moaned, exhaled and lowered her face, feeling the hairless perfection of Bobby’s buttocks brushing her cheeks. She extended her tongue and began to lick around his asshole, moaning with hunger like a starving woman who hadn’t eaten in weeks. For some absurd reason, as with her swallowing of the boy’s semen, she began to think of communion.

_ This is my body. Eat it, in memory of me. _

It was so obscene but… it felt and tasted  _ so good _ . Vanessa felt fulfillment, both spiritual and physical, course through her as she slid her tongue up Bobby’s asshole and licked around the walls of his bowels, loving the earthy taste of boy-musk and intestinal juices. Her hands clapped onto his perfect, pert boy-butt and spread his cheeks as his soft flesh sunk into her palms. She and Katrina moaned in unison and she could feel Bobby’s balls twitch and disgorge more thick ropes of semen down Katrina’s throat, spurred on by her oral attentions.

Bobby’s pelvis was now sandwiched between their two faces, mother and daughter, being serviced by each. Vanessa’s huge breasts hung down, the nipples puffy and poking, jostling with Katrina’s perky nips as their two sets of tits - one gravity-defying and shapely, one heavy and hanging - mashed against each other. Their sets of spread thighs gave way to pussies that were sordidly wet, their inner thighs glistening. Vanessa felt a slick rivulet of her honey leak from between her folds and drizzle straight down, and knew that she was creaming all over her daughter’s young, peach-fuzzed pussy mound. Glazing it. Preparing it.

_ For what?  _

_ For him. _

Of course. In that moment, it seemed inevitable, and perfect. “Oh, g-god,” Vanessa moaned, and then she leaned in and started making out with Bobby’s asshole, kissing it more vigorously than she ever had her husband’s mouth, in all of their years of marriage. She ground the flat of her tongue against the orifice and then pursed her lips around it and began to suck, hollowing out her cheeks until her cheekbones were stark, her eyes half-lidded and totally content as she made lewd baby-with-a-pacifier slurping noises. Her pussy roared into orgasm from the nasty, submissive act, and she squirted extravagantly downward, in a jet, hosing down her daughter’s tender clit, driving her over the edge in turn. She felt Bobby’s cock twitch and deliver another huge, lumpy gout of fat semen ropes straight down Katrina’s throat. 

She could actually  _ feel and hear _ the fat, chunky cum curds rocketing down his dickpipe and piling in Katrina’s taut stomach. It was impossible to imagine anything sexier or more virile. She had felt the pain of being barren, of being unable to bear a child. She knew in a second, though, that Bobby could kindle her if he wanted. And that was the sexiest thing she could ever imagine.

Vanessa did not rush in attending to her eleven-year-old boy. She groped his buttocks, moving her mouth to kiss and suck on the young, buoyant flesh with worshipful moans. She swabbed him inside with her tongue as deep as it could go, and spent more than ten minutes simply sucking on his asshole, fellating his hairless, perfect anus as if it were a cock, while her eyes rolled back and her lips pulled into a lewd, degrading tube shape. Much like her suckling at his cock those many weeks, it felt like a form of feeding; the only means by which she could satisfy her deep desire to nurture and worship her son’s body.

It felt  _ so _ good. On the other side of the coin from the prim and proper churchgoing life she had known, in which appearance, faith and adherence to dogma had been all that mattered, there was a place with Bobby where only gratification mattered. Nothing was forbidden, everything was permitted, even the most obscene acts of incest. She had seen echoes of this place in his drawings; mothers upon sons, sisters upon brothers, the darkest parts of the Bible twisted into a religion far from anything she’d known before his arrival. And in this place where gratification and the ritual of sex loomed largest, she found a deep, worshipful need for her adopted son’s body. Bobby had the roundest, cutest eleven-year-old ass and Vanessa absolutely loved that. She wanted him to sit on her face whenever he wanted so she could clean out his asshole with her tongue. It made her proud that he had a massive, impregnating penis with a huge pair of virile  _ sperm tanks _ . That he was totally using Katrina as a cock sleeve like a true alpha. She felt about these things how she imagined a penitent of a dark mass might feel, kneebound before a pentacle of iron, hoping to summon something great and good and superior.

All these images, Bobby had shown her.

He pulled out of Katrina’s well-fucked throat, raising his hips. His long cock emerged slick and covered in throat slime, Vanessa couldn’t resist reaching out to milk it downward, to stroke it, to pull it back through his legs and lick the tip, squeezing out every bit of semen she could and pulling it into her hungry mouth. Bobby looked back over his shoulder, making eye contact for the first time. Vanessa saw the bandage over his left eye, the way the sclera was hemorrhaged and filled with blood in one corner. 

The fight. Those older boys from the private school had given Bobby a beating. Split his eyebrow to the bone and gave him a heck of a shiner. Yet even in the aftermath, Bobby hadn’t complained, and had declined to name the culprits, saying he would ‘deal with it himself’. Sitting at the dining room table and holding a pack of frozen corn against Bobby’s forehead, Vanessa had cried blue murder over that, insisting she was going to call those boys mothers and read them the riot act, maybe get the police involved. But Bobby simply shook his head slowly and firmly.    
  
_ No. Don’t worry about them, mom. _

And she remembered how Isaac had been skulking around, not asking if his adopted brother was okay, as both Vanessa and Katrina had been doing. While they fawned over him, Isaac only sulked, as if jealous that Bobby’s beating had robbed him of attention. And of course, she realized quickly that her shrieking overreaction was more akin to what Isaac would have wanted in the same situation. But not Bobby. Bobby was strong. And more and more, Vanessa was coming to realize that Isaac, her biological son, was weak.

He was staring at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. And the discoloration around his eyes - the black rings, the blood-red sclera - somehow looked… fitting. Vanessa couldn’t explain how. It was as if this darkened state wasn’t alien to Bobby at all. The grotesque masks, the suggestive drawings… it was just something else he was showing her. Katrina, who had traveled to the back alleys with Bobby, could have told her mother that Bobby had shown her not to be afraid of injury, and things most considered ‘gross’.

Bobby turned over onto his back, propped against his pillow, and held out the piece of paper he had been using to draw, which featured another woodcut tableaux. His cock lay fat and flopping over one of his slender thighs as the image passed between them; the only sound was Katrina’s harsh breathing, as she recovered from a throat-fuck that had lasted nearly half an hour.

Vanessa looked at the image. It showed a circle of angels surrounding a baphomet-horned devil, attacking it. The devil was smaller, earnest in expression, being scourged by their lashes and poked by their spears, yet seemed to be bravely surviving despite the odds. Its face was boyish, and reminiscent of Bobby himself.    
  
In the foreground, apart from the larger angels, was a cherub, hiding behind a cloud, peering over to watch the proceedings. It was sneaky and cowardly in countenance, and the parted hairstyle and peering eyes seemed reminiscent of Isaac. A sash around the cherub’s chubby chest was overspilling with coins. 

The caption below was carefully written in pencil:

_ Am I my brother’s keeper? _

“What is it, mom?” Katrina asked, propping herself up on her elbows. She did not seem self-conscious or ashamed that her mother had witnessed her servicing Bobby. They had already shared so many glances; they had taken his communion together. She knew instinctively there would be no rebuke for what they both now considered their duty as Bobby’s family. “What did Bobby draw?”

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “It’s…” Her voice trailed off, and her lips moved silently as she muttered to herself.

“Is that Isaac and Bobby?” Katrina asked. The two women were sitting up on the mattress now, unabashedly nude, shoulder to shoulder, their breasts hanging - Katrina’s a little and Vanessa’s enormously - and their hair feathered down wildly over their shoulders. “Do you think?”

Vanessa shut her eyes and clenched her teeth with anger. What had happened was now apparent to her - and though the choice the truth offered would have seemed impossible as recently as four weeks prior, now, she made it resolutely, and without regret.

* * *

The fight happened on the 21st, a Friday - but Isaac had put his plan into motion several weeks before. Though he wasn’t lacking on most conventional forms of courage, he steeled himself enough to walk up to where Lorne Callahan and the older, taller boys would hang out behind the athletic field, doing ‘delinquent’ things like vaping, swearing, and talking about which teachers had it in for them. Lorne Callahan was fourteen, but could have easily passed for eighteen. He had the start of a wispy moustache on both sides of his mouth and stood nearly six foot, so large that his St. Gabe Prep Academy uniform had to be ordered special. This alone made him a school legend. It was known among all the boys, especially in the younger grades, that Lorne Callahan would grab your head and rotate it around four times if you so much as looked at him funny.

Rumor had it that Lorne’s father could barely make the pricey tuition; that in addition to being the biggest and meanest boy in school, he was also the poorest. But woe betide the fourth or fifth-grader who made a comment about the worn knees on his slacks of the ill-fitting sleeves on his jacket, which barely reached mid-wrist and made him look like a neanderthal. To do so would be inviting disaster.

Normally, Isaac would never have ventured near him or his circle of equally-delinquent friends, but on that day, he’d had a purpose. A purpose, and a hundred dollars in cash allowance that he’d gotten from Cal and Vanessa through a mixture of whining, lying (his dad and mom weren’t on good terms, so it was easy to convince them both that the other had been forgetful) and outright thievery from his mother’s purse. Isaac figured that stealing was against the teachings of the Lord, but he reframed the act in his mind as a ‘reappropriation’ of funds for a good cause.

The cause? Exposing his ‘brother’, Bobby, as the dangerous creep that Isaac just  _ knew _ he was. And maybe, just maybe, teaching Bobby a lesson in the process.

“L-Lorne?” Isaac stammered, face red. Even saying the name had been almost impossible. Walking behind the bleachers and standing in their shadow had made him feel like running and putting the plan off until later. But in the end, he swallowed his terror and made the stammering offer, with tears in his eyes, pinned up against the chain-link with Lorne’s fist grabbing his shirt and two other cretinous older boys pinning his arms.

He would pay the boys fifty in advance for beating Bobby up. Fifty more when the job was done. 

Lorne called him a queer and told him his family must be really fucked up if he wanted his own brother to get beat up. But Isaac found a new level of lying in the midst of this danger; he imagined it must be like the inspiration his father felt up on the pulpit, ensuring his livelihood. Isaac became silver tongued when it was his own skin on the line.

Bobby was, Isaac claimed, always talking about how Lorne was a big stupid idiot who didn’t belong at the school. Bobby further said that the girls that Lorne favored were all ugly and that Lorne and his friends (and here Isaac guessed at what would enrage Lorne most) were probably queer for each other anyway. Speaking quickly, he tried to make Lorne as mad at Bobby as he himself was; the first and greatest sermon of his young life. Isaac knew that much of what his father said was designed to get people to do what he wanted, and now it was his turn to step into those shoes.

“Don’t tell him I sent you,” Isaac clarified - and the twinge of fear he felt at the idea of Bobby finding out was enough to make his skin prickle. “Just tell him… he doesn’t belong here.” He gulped. “Tell him… tell him adopted kids should just get lost.”

Isaac produced the fifty, and Lorne set him down on the ground, finally letting loose of the checkered cardigan sweater that was now stretched in the front. “Alright, you little shit,” Lorne said. “It’ll be our pleasure rearranging that kid’s face. But if you try to jew me somehow-”

Isaac shook his head with almost comical vigor. “I won’t. I’d have to be crazy to do that.”

“Got that right.”

That was how it had started. But Isaac had several things in mind that he didn’t share with Lorne of his goonish friends. First, he thought Bobby was dangerous. He thought that if Bobby was backed into a corner, he might do something violent. And that violence would be even better in the long run for Isaac’s plans. Isaac thought if Bobby lashed out and hurt one of the older boys, his dad might put him back in a boy’s home. He got the sense, just from observing Cal’s brooding demeanor over the prior weeks, that his father was just looking for any excuse to bed rid of Bobby, any infraction he could point to and justify shipping him out.

Isaac’s heart had been pounding as the boys left him against the fence, his sense of both righteousness and jealousy fully inflamed. More than anything, it was the attention that his mother and sister paid Bobby that had caused the hate to grow in his heart, and that hate had driven him to become sneakier and more resourceful than even his father would have thought possible.

On that day, as he waited for his breathing to slow down, he imagined he would get rid of Bobby, and then he would help his father resuscitate the attendance at the church, which he would eventually take over and run himself once his father was ready to retire. He would talk each week about the love of Christ and the grace of God, and the money would roll in, and he would use that money to buy whatever he wanted. And he would meet a girl that he could spellbind with his words, a girl who looked more than a little like his mother and his sister, and marry her, and have a son of his own, who he would raise to turn a dollar at the pulpit, as his father had raised him. 

As it turned out, nothing went quite as planned.

* * *

It was overcast and raining outside on the 21st when Lorne and his two friends, Murray and Connor, intercepted Bobby in the school bathrooms. It was Lorne himself who grabbed Bobby by the collar and dragged him in, manhandling the much smaller boy. Connor kept watch, Murray turned the lock and pressed on the automatic hand-dryer, covering up any initial noises of struggle. The science of shaking down and beating up other boys was old hat for them; they were going nowhere, wanting nothing, and would achieve no greater heights than their current status as school boogeymen - big, older boys in Catholic school uniforms, hair buzzed close to their heads, older than Bobby by three years and the biggest of them perhaps twice his body weight.

“I heard you’ve been saying I’m a homo,” Lorne said to Bobby, shoving him against the cold tile wall and moving into smashing distance. Bobby’s body slammed into the wall with tooth-rattling force, and then the boy looked up, his black hair hanging over his eyes before he cleared it with his hand and the green of his irises seemed to flash. Lorne cracked his knuckles. “I’m gonna take out a tooth for every time you said that.”

Bobby’s expression didn’t change. He leaned back against the wall and then lifted one hand to loosen his tie, and then removed it, tossing it on the row of three sinks that was nearby. Next, he took off his jacket. Lorne laughed. 

“Better take off your shirt too, if you don’t want blood on it,” he said. “You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you? Well, you got this coming.” The automatic dryer flicked off and suddenly the bathroom seemed eerily silent.

Bobby looked at Lorne evenly, a black lamb staring down the looming white wolf. Suddenly, he spoke. “Your father killed your mother, did you know that?” he said.

Lorne’s eyes bugged out. “What the fuck did you say?” he growled. “What did you just fuckin’ say?” He closed to punching distance.

“I said, your father killed your mother.”

_ WHOCK!  _

It was a bone-chilling sound as Lorne’s right hand swung and connected with Bobby’s head, smashing his eyebrow, splitting the skin, banging his head off the wall. Bobby made no noise, only exhaled with the impact, and then slumped to his hands and knees as a sluice of blood dripped into a puddle below him.

“You don’t know anything about my old man,” Lorne growled, and as Bobby held out a hand to press himself up from the floor, he kicked it out. The room grew coppery with the scent of blood. 

“He said… she ran off and left the two of you when you were five,” Bobby said, breath hitching with pain. But his face didn’t show discomfort. It looked vicious. He looked up to stare at Lorne through a mask of blood that covered half his face. His canine teeth gleamed through the crimson. “But that was a lie. She did run off, but she changed her mind. She tried to come back home.”

“Shut up!” Lorne cried, and kicked Bobby in the ribs, turning the boy over and knocking more wind out of him. A memory of his mother’s touch, warm and nurturing, began to ache inside him with a need beyond any he’d ever experienced. For years, he had hated her, hearing stories at his father’s knee, beer in one hand, remote control in the other, about how she had run off. But he had always wondered why, if she had run away, she had never tried to contact him, her only son. Why? Unless-

“He caved her skull in and buried her in the woods, out at the cottage on Lake Mirabelle. The year before he started to build the boathouse.” Bobby gasped, and the pool of blood running from his busted eyebrow was becoming macabre. Connor and Murray, dim as they were, could recognize that something dangerous and unexpected was happening; what was supposed to be a quick beating had transformed into a terrifying revelation, given by a crimson masked young boy who was smiling like the devil himself.

“Shut up,” Lorne said, but his voice sounded hollow. He drew back his hand, and hesitated. “Shut up. Shut up!” He had never been sorry to beat someone up, but felt real regret now, regret and terror. He knew the truth of the strange black-haired boy’s words as instinctively as he knew the familiar shape of his father’s lies. 

“I can tell you where to dig,” Bobby seethed, and now it was him who seemed tall and Lorne who seemed to be shrinking. “She wants to see you again, you know.” 

An image entered Lorne’s mind and he screamed, sounding far from the balls-out bully that was his reputation. He didn’t punch Bobby again but simply shoved him down under the sinks, turning away and beginning to run. He knew that as long as he lived, he would never shake the image of his mother’s mouldering body, resting underground, one hand extended upward, as if reaching for the son she would never see again. 

He would live the rest of his childhood with a murderer. 

Lorne burst through the bathroom door and his friends followed, leaving Bobby alone. Out in the hall, where students were just filing into the next of their classes, there was one figure pressed into the shadow of some lockers, hiding, not wanting to be seen watching with undue interest. Isaac watched as Lorne fled past. The bigger, older boy had tears in his eyes, blood splattered on his shirt and hands. He hoped for a moment the job was done… but then he heard laughing, a deep and maniacal laugh that seemed to echo through the halls and caused the teachers to take notice. 

It was one of the teachers who called for the nurse Bobby emerged, his entire left side covered in blood from his spit eyebrow, laughing. Before he ducked back behind the lockers, they made eye contact, and Isaac saw that Bobby was grinning like a wolf. 

_ He looked right at me _ , Isaac realized.  _ Dozens of people in the halls and he didn’t look at anyone except me. _

Isaac ran. Bobby, losing blood and badly beaten, sank to his knees. The nurse arrived. Calls were made to parents. And Lorne Callahan, later that night, began to think with serious resolve about his father’s gun safe, and what revenge he might take if he could gain access to it.

* * *

That had been a week ago, and now, realizing the truth of what had happened - that Isaac had sold his adopted brother out no less contemptibly than Judas Iscariot had done so to Jesus Christ - Vanessa felt an overwhelming mix of emotions. Anger, that her own son would do such a thing, would try to take the gift of a new brother from the family. But even more than that, she saw the need to apologize… and atone.

Bobby was so superior, so physically and mentally beautiful, that it was an affront to try to harm him. And Isaac was trying to hurt Bobby. That was… was...

A passage came to her with startling clarity, even though she had never studied the bible as thoroughly as Cal. She opened her mouth, and as she spoke, she realized that Bobby was speaking as well, his voice overlaid with hers in harmony.

_ “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you.” _

The book of Genesis. 

This would be her  _ binding of Isaac _ .

Wordlessly, Bobby stood up on the mattress and held his fat, long pre-teen penis out in front of the two prostrate females, as if offering it to them. This, Vanessa realized, was the mountain, the place of sacrifice. Bobby’s huge cock was the peak to which she would now ascend. And the sacrifice…

She took her last matronly feelings for her biological son and pushed them away. She spread her thighs, arched her back, and looked up at Bobby with pleading eyes.

“I’m sorry Isaac is such a tiny-dicked fag,” she moaned, rubbing her lips on Bobby’s cockhead. “I’m ashamed that his little worm-sized cock came out of my womb. Please… punish my body for giving birth to suck an inferior boy. He’s… Isaac is a piece of shit.” She began to finger herself, and Katrina, seeing the utter depravity of her discarding her matronly association to her flesh and blood, as Abraham had done on the mount before god’s messenger made the save, grew excited, her eyes - ringed with black mascara that she wore only for Bobby, more witch-like than ever - were utterly entranced by the ugliness and wrongness that had become her bread and wine. “I… I can tell that Isaac wants to have sex with both me and Katrina,” Vanessa confessed, shamefaced. “He’s a little pervert. I… I want him to know that we’re both going to suck and fuck your huge cock from now on, Bobby… and that we’d never touch his underdeveloped little dick in a million years!”

Both women were fingering themselves, arching their backs like whores, entranced by Bobby’s cock. Vanessa continued to make verbal tribute to the boy as he stood before them like an idol. Mashing her huge, bouncing tits together with both her forearms, she stretched upward and pressed them together around Bobby’s shaft, massaging him, letting him thrust and fuck her cleavage as he liked, all while keeping smoldering eyes contact.

“Oh, fuck… that’s so hot, mom!” Katrina said, blushing. “I wish I could do that!”

“Let me… make it up to you!” Vanessa moaned, pleading up at Bobby. “Repay you, for how Isaac caused injury to your perfect body! Use me and my daughter as your personal toilets… I want Isaac to know that he’s a nothing but a faggot and every inch of our bodies has been covered in your cum. That the breasts I used to breast-feed him are only good for milking the loads out of your huge dick!”

“I wish he was here, watching!” Katrina added. She sensed what had happened, and her appetite for darkness and depravity had grown apace with her mother. “He could watch you pump out all your cum on our faces, totally covering us…”

“Please, fuck us up with your loads! I want you to abuse my daughter in front of me!” Vanessa moaned. “I’ll give you any of my children, Bobby… nothing is more important than you!” His long cock burrowed through her cleavage during the degrading titfuck and the tip pressed against her mouth. She extended her lips into a lewd, eye-rolling blowjob face to suck it, slurping wetly, not caring about the indecency of the noise she made,  _ wanting _ to sound  _ stupid _ and  _ whorish _ and  _ low _ .

Katrina, not content with simply watching, pulled Bobby’s long dick away and started to bob her mouth aggressively on it, showing off how well she could use her young, barely-teen throat to gag on Bobby’s meat, letting it skewer her until spit bubbled poured down over her chin. “Gluuuurk!” she croaked. “Uuuuuuuuuuuuaaalk! Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurk!”

Vanessa bit her lip and looked to the side with jealousy. “Oh, god… you’ve turned my daughter into such a cocksucking, stupid whore piece of shit, Bobby!” she gasped, kneading her nipples and fingering her soaked pussy. She slid next to Katrina and reached around each side of her head, fishhooking her mouth open, giving Bobby as much access as he needed to fuck her throat like it was a cunt. “Use her!” she begged. “Let her be my apology! For Isaac being such a worthless, dickless piece of shit!”

Bobby let Katrina suck his prong for a few strokes, then withdrew it, covered in saliva and sperm bubbles, to let Vanessa suck it for a few. The two women adoringly took turns choking on his cock, their dark hair mirrored one each side of his jutting meat, flying and flashing as they gagged all over him, each seemingly trying to one-up the other in how much of a mess they would make.

Vanessa seemed both scandalized and challenged by how eagerly Katrina was choking down Bobby’s prong. “You’re such a throat whore, Katrina!” she marveled. “You’ve been sneaking around with Bobby for weeks now, haven’t you?” Katrina gurgled as Bobby withdrew from her mouth, forming another saliva bridge between his knob and her pretty lips. Bobby lowered his hands to both of their heads and pressed their faces together. They didn’t hesitate before mashing their spit-soaked mouths together and starting to make out, embracing, Vanessa’s huge tits mashing against her daughter’s perfectly-shaped, gravity-defying melons as they gasped and sucked tongues and exchanged spit. 

Bobby walked closer, they turned from making out to suck and worship his balls like whores, pursing their lips and sucking each fat nut as hard as they could, stretching the scrotal skin out and making wet, sloppy pulls on each heavy sperm orb with all the suction their stretched-out blowjob faces would muster, their eyes glazed and overwhelmed, a mother and daughter utterly entranced. This was Bobby’s revenge, no doubt - any abbreviated, childish sexual fantasy Isaac might have had about the formative women in his life, he was completely trampling and taking for himself.

He beat their faces with his cock, spit on both of them, made them open their mouths and swap it. He lay down and lifted his knees to his chest, letting them both slide their tongues into his asshole at once and entwine into a shared french kiss inside his hot bowels. They women fought over who would be the bigger whore for him, who could more lewdly lick and worship his asshole. And then, when it seemed they could degrade themselves no more, Bobby reached out to grip Vanessa’s hair and push her down sideways. She rolled onto her back, thighs spread, tits bulging, looking up at him, and panting. Next, Bobby walked behind the gasping Katrina and used his foot to push down between her mother’s legs, leaving her face just inches from Vanessa’s slick slit.

“You know what to do, Katrina,” Bobby said, and she  _ did _ . She turned face down, face between Vanessa’s sprayed thighs, and buried her tongue into her mother’s slit. Vanessa’s eyes went wide and she pushed her legs together around her daughter’s head, reaching down to bury her hands in that wild mane of dark hair that was so like her own. 

“Oh… fuck!” Vanessa moaned, eyes shut, head tossed back. “Katrina… you… bad girl! You… rug-munching fucking… dyke!” It felt so good, so forbidden, that she could scarcely think. The idea that Bobby had been teaching her daughter behind her back was a dark discovery that was sordidly welcome. Her body, her daughter, and her son’s sacrifice were all she could offer. Her thick, round buttocks clenched and she drove her pussy up into Katrina’s face, raising off the mattress. When she collapsed back down, Katrina was staring slyly at her, mouth slick with her juices, over the top of her pubic mound.

“Bobby showed me how girls lick cunts, mom,” Katrina explained. After their first trip out together, she had become hooked; obsessed with whatever the boy had to teach her, the hidden, adult, secret information that was beyond the boundaries of her sheltered childhood. “Everything Bobby showed me… it’s so much better than church and the bible!” She gave her mother a smoky gaze over the older woman’s puffy, hair-dusted pubic mound. “I’m going to muff-dive and scissor with every one of my friends. I want their  _ cunts _ in my face! Bobby showed me so many things. I’m going to piss in front of people in public. I’m going to go to gloryholes and suck every cock that comes through! I’m going to fuck dogs.”

“Oh you little whore!” Vanessa groaned, and she took a fistful of Katrina’s hair and forced the girl’s face deep into her pussy. “Eat me out! If you’re such a whore now, suck on my pussy! Make me cum in your little face, you bad girl! You fucking slut! All you’re good for is putting on a show to get Bobby’s dick hard!” She threw her head back and clenched her teeth as her daughter’s tongue explored inside her, teasing her clit, grinding on her folds with uncanny skill. And dimly she could see Bobby positioning himself behind Katrina and pressing his leaking, heavy cockhead not against her pussy, the god-ordained method of procreation, but at the entrance to her asshole.

Vanessa’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Y-yes, Bobby… I wish Isaac could see you right now. Ripping apart his sister’s asshole with your huge cock. Making her eat my pussy like a dyke! Training her… he’d see how inferior he is… how stupid he was to ever be your enemy!” Bobby thrust his tight, boyish hips forward; his body precocious in size, almost faerie-like as it scampered on the mattress amidst their larger ones. His slick, spit-soaked prong bent slightly as Katrina’s asshole resisted, and then it began to slide in with a wet, meaty noise of churning ass-pipe. Katrina cried out, exhaling into Vanessa’s pussy - her eyes rolled back with the darkest, most devouring pleasure she had ever known. Vanessa saw there was no trace of her daughter remaining at that moment, there was only a rutting, cock-addicted animal, and seeing how thoroughly Bobby had trained Katrina drove her to her own orgasm, knowing it was her son, her hung son, her amazing, flawless, perfect son, who had done it. Oh, how could Isaac have been so foolish? How could Isaac have betrayed the true power of the household, the black lamb who had become the lion?

She forced Katrina’s face into her pussy and came powerfully, bucking her hips up and squirting wetly and extravagantly into her daughter’s moaning, willing face, overflowing her mouth. Bobby was driving his huge penis into Katrina’s asshole nearly all the way to the balls, and the teen girl was feeling sensations of pain and pleasure beyond anything she could have imagined. She wanted Bobby’s thick meat to reshape her asshole the same way his tutelage had reshaped her mind. She wanted to shit his cum. She wanted to be fucked doggystyle in a glade where the toadstools sprouted in a pentagram shape and unknown, unnatural shapes moved in the trees.

Her orgasm tore through her like a banshee as she bounced back against his thrusting cock, her teenage bubble-butt clapping against his smooth pelvis and jiggling around his dick. She soon felt the pressure and pleasure of Bobby’s cock pumping cum deep into her ass, knowing those sperm were being blasted into the place she used to  _ shit _ , that she was fucking for pure pleasure, having sex that was a denial of life, a denial of everything but rutting, squirting, wracking orgasms. She knew in that moment, at the tender age of thirteen, that she never wanted to have a baby. Unless of course, it was with Bobby. She wanted to get fucked up the  _ ass _ . She wanted to get mounted by men and dogs in ways that would never result in a child. This desire was the abjuration against the church, and a life she’d seen, only six months prior, as set in stone and without escape. She was free.

Free to be her younger brother’s fucking whore.

When Bobby pulled out, spent for the moment, Katrina collapsed forward onto her mother, and the women embraced, their bodies covered in lube and spit and cum and sweat, an obscene parody of Madonna and child. Bobby nudged Katrina with his bare foot and she moaned. He walked to stand over their heads and held out his foot again, so they could suck at lick worshipfully at his toes.

Bobby spoke aloud as he stood over them, reciting by heart, effortless, as if he had heard the words a million times.  _ “On the night he was betrayed he took the cup, saying ‘This is the New Covenant of my blood.”  _ He reached down and took Katrina by the hair, guiding her upward, and his gaze was enough to tell the worshipful teenage girl that all he wanted was for her to squat and spread the cheeks of her flawless bubble ass over her mother’s face.

“Drink it, in memory of me,” Bobby said. Vanessa moaned orgasmically and opened her mouth as Katrina squatted like an animal, her hairless, pink anus puckering and pushing out, before a thick, bubbling cum fart erupted and a solid stream of thick, white semen poured forth, spraying all over Vanessa’s teeth and tongue, covering them, filling her mouth quickly.

She drank. Swallowed. Opened her mouth again, and Katrina pushed out more thick, gelatinous cum into her mouth. Bobby’s cum.  _ BRPPPPTHTHT! _ Vanessa’s mouth and lips were splattered by another loose, nasty sperm fart as Katrina voided her semen-packed bowels all over her mother’s face. Her tongue was hanging out and dripping saliva like a dog as she looked to Bobby for approval. 

The boy took his long, half-hard penis and began to piss directly into Katrina’s face. She too, needed to take her communion. The foaming, virile yellow stream filled her mouth instantly and she began to gulp, and gulp, and gulp, wanting to drink every drop of Bobby's emission. She voided more sperm into her mother’s mouth, and bathed her face, and cooed as the thick stream of piss erupted all over her unblinking eyeballs, and she felt her mother’s tongue slide into her well-fucked asshole and lips purse over her anus, as Vanessa began to suck the thick, chunky cum curds out of her shithole.

When it was over, the lead pencil shavings in Bobby’s wastebasket served to darken their fingers, and each female eagerly drew a pentacle of powdered blackness on the pelvis of the other, smudged and halting but still recognizable for all that, a sigil directly above the place where their wombs were throbbing inside their fertile bodies.

Bobby smiled when he saw the completion of this act, his huge penis hanging down to his knee, his left eye still discolored, the injury adding to his dark allure rather than detracting from it.

It would not be long now.

* * *

“Tell me about the case,” Cal asked, crossing his hands and leaning forward. “Whatever case you might think may be my reference, Rich. We’re just talking here, like you said.”

Rich didn’t break eye contact, and opened the file without looking at it. Cal caught a glimpse of some photocopied reports but couldn’t read the fine print. “There  _ was  _ a case where a foster father was convicted of abuse. But the man didn’t end up in prison, even though I think he should have.”

“Where’d he end up?”

“Montfaire Psychiatric. He’s still there.”

“What about the mother?” Cal asked. “In that case, I mean. Was she also-”

“Nobody knows,” Rich said. “During the hearings and trial she attended. She testified against the father. She wore black lace.” He flipped a piece of paper and there was a courtroom drawing inside of a rather voluptuous-looking woman in a wide-brimmed black hat, like a grieving widow or mother might wear to a funeral if she was particularly stylish. Cal couldn’t help but notice the woman was extremely large-breasted, not unlike his own wife.

“The father, he… beat the boy?” Cal prompted. Rich nodded gravely. “Badly?” Cal pressed on. The idea of someone beating Bobby held a particular fascination for him, because he didn’t know how the completely unflappable boy would respond. In the few times he’d lectured Bobby or confronted him about something, the boy not blubbered or apologized or looked down in shame, as Isaac had done in the same situations. Rather, Bobby didn’t give an inch. He simply took his rebuke and punishment without a word.  _ No wonder his foster parents wanted to beat the shit out of him _ , Cal thought, and found he felt less guilty about it than expected.

“Yeah, badly,” said Rich. “But that isn’t what landed them in court.” He flipped a paper over and there was a photo of a room, a metal spring bed with the mattress completely burned away and the floor blackened. He saw Cal glance at it and then added. “I’m just talking to myself here, Cal, remember. And if you happen to be looking over and see anything-”

“Right,” Cal said. “So, there was a fire.”

Rich Turlis swallowed and his jowls fluttered. His eyes flashed down to the photo and back up. “I should say so. According to the testimony of the mother, the father doused the boy in gasoline and set him on fire.”

Cal was silent for a moment, his brow furrowing a little. “Nobody set Bobby on fire,” he asserted.

“The boy. Whatever boy we might be-”

“Cut the shit, Rich!” Cal snapped, raising his voice to the level he used on the pulpit. “We both know who we’re talking about. And nobody is going to touch you for this. I’m an important man around here. We both know it. So let’s cut the spy routine. Nobody burned Bobby. I’ve seen boys on the news who were burned. They have burns all over their bodies. They’re disfigured. Bobby doesn’t have a scratch on him.”

“I’m just telling you what it says in the report,” Rich said, looking both scared and alarmed. He seemed scandalized that his pastor of many years was speaking in such a way.

“It’s horseshit,” Cal barked. “What, do you think I’m stupid? You’ve got some other boy’s file.”

“Everything on him was burned. His clothes, totally destroyed. The room, too. But it was him, Cal. I’ve got the right file. Somebody lit that boy on fire, but by the grace of God-”

“Ha!” Cal flopped back down into his chair and rolled his eyes. “God! Indeed. Bobby is blessed, is that your assertion? That what we’re talking about is an honest to goodness miracle?”

Rich turned his eyes down. “W-well, I don’t know… the medical examiner thought maybe the fire burned away Bobby’s clothes, and-”

“Nonsense,” Cal grunted, crossing his arms. “The father, what did he have to say about it? He was crazy, right? Carted off to the nut house. He probably burned a pile of clothes he thought was his son.” A part of him a part he would never admit aloud, almost resented the fact that Bobby hadn’t been burned. 

Rich shook his head slowly, and turned over more photos to a page showing a deposition. “No, Cal. The father testified - I mean, they didn’t think he was crazy until this testimony. The father - he said he set Bobby on fire on purpose, and he made sure it was him. But even though the boy was burning, he was unharmed, and simply rose from his bed and walked away.” He flipped a page. “And he said he burned him because… well… goodness.” His voice trailed off.

“What did he say?” Cal prompted.

Rich looked up at him. His jowled face had gone pale. His mouth trembled as he recited the final remarks in the transcript, not needing to look down at the page, one glance having been enough.

“He said  _ ‘my son is the devil, and he’s here to do the devil’s work. _ ’”

Cal reached out his arm and swept the file off of the table, sending it into the fall with an airy  _ whap  _ of flying papers. When Rich put out a hand to restrain his arm, Cal pulled it away. He turned and walked briskly from the room, not saying goodbye to Rich Turlis, who he never expected to see at one of his services ever again. He resented Rich Turlis for letting Bobby get to him, for shying away from the church because of one gruesome incident. He resented Rich’s pallid moon face and his jowls and his B-movie actor recitation of Bobby’s file, like he was in a horror film and trying to build the tension.    
  
He resented that Rich had made him believe.

Cal Sterling did not believe. He believed in money. He believed in the ability to control people. He even believed in the power of the church - as an institution. But he had never believed in miracles. The supernatural.

And he did not believe in the devil. That horned, cloven-hoofed, sulphur-smelling cartoon character. He had never even believed a little.

Until now. And Cal hated that. He hated that seed of belief so desperately, he would do anything to kill it. If that meant removing the source of his misgivings…

_ That little bastard. _

He slid into the front seat of his Mercedes and slammed the door, fuming. His fingers gripped the wheel with white knuckles and he looked straight ahead, seeing nothing, only thinking. Vanessa had already made it clear that she favored Bobby a great deal - even more than their own biological son. It was a situation that had developed over the preceding months. She doted on Bobby, sheltered him from harm and reprisals, and resisted Cal’s attempts to change his behavior. She would never allow him to send the boy away, that much was clear. He would need to come up with a plan. 

_ Can the devil harm you if you don’t believe in him? _ A small girl had asked him that question once, and Cal, not wanting to offend her rich and generous parents, had given the most gentle of answers. Now, he asked it of himself, grunted in frustration at his own doubts, and pushed the query out of his mind without considering it further.

He put the car in gear and started the drive home.


End file.
